The Horse and the Swan
by anolinde
Summary: The War of the Ring is over, but Gúthwyn now faces a battle at court. In addition, she finds herself turning down a wave of suitors. Even if she does find someone, will they help her forget what was done to her in Mordor? Rohan Pride Chronicles.
1. An Old Acquaintance

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**PLEASE NOTE:  
**This is the only disclaimer you will see in Recovery. I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own any part of Tolkien's brainchild. I am not making any money from this. The characters I do claim are the non-canon characters—especially Gúthwyn. Every character I put in the story has a name that comes from The Lord of the Rings UK website (besides Gúthwyn), except for the rare occasion when I look up a name in a book called _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. This was where Gúthwyn, 'one who delights in battle', came from. Also, I have a very limited knowledge of fighting, whether it involves 'street smarts', swords, knives, bows, or axes, and I do not claim to be an expert on any of them.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One**

It was morning in the White City of Gondor. The sun had risen over the streets where hundreds of people were milling about, bartering for various items in the marketplace. Life was good for them: The King had returned, noble Elessar who recalled the spirit of the Elves; the Shadow of the East had been lifted, and most of his servants scattered harmlessly; the weather was perfect, with no clouds in the sky to obscure its gorgeous blue color.

In the midst of all this, Gúthwyn of Rohan rushed through the streets, her booted feet skimming hastily over the cobblestones, a frequent grimace of pain crossing her features. She had gotten up early that morning to walk around the city, mistakenly assuming that she could remember her way from when her champion Tun had shown her, and thinking that her injuries had recovered sufficiently. Now she was relatively lost, in considerable agony, and about to be late to her meeting with Éowyn—and her future husband.

True to her word, Éowyn had kept his identity a secret. Gúthwyn had already begged for the name today, saying that since it was her birthday—June thirteenth—she was entitled to know, but her sister would have none of it. She had heard naught from the gossip of the local townspeople, as she had only just recovered from her injuries enough to walk around for a lengthy stretch of time.

It was then that she came to the joining of two roads, and was relieved to see that she recognized them. The one to her right was the main street, crowded with people and taking an easier, gradual route to the Houses of Healing, which was where she was headed. The other was steeper and darker, as towering stone buildings on either side of the path blocked out the sunlight, but quicker. She could either go left or right.

_Left,_ she decided, and hurried down the alley. As much as she would have loved to mingle with the people, she did not want to give Éowyn's future husband a bad impression.

Along the way, Gúthwyn busied herself with thoughts of who he might be. A man of Minas Tirith, clearly, for Éowyn had expressly told her not to ask any of the civilians. Who, then, had captured her sister's heart so suddenly, so unexpectedly? Try as she might, she could not come up with a single name. Her heart was fluttering in anticipation as she ascended the levels of the city.

At last she came to the top, and had to pause for a moment to catch her breath. Her ribs were aching painfully, and she tried to massage them, but her touch only made things worse. Sighing ruefully, she smoothed out the grey dress she was wearing, and made her way across the lawn, keeping her eye out for Hammel or Haiweth. The two children were nowhere in sight; they must have been occupying themselves elsewhere. She did not worry for them, as Hammel had an extraordinarily good sense of direction and could find his way back from anywhere in the city. Much unlike herself.

When Gúthwyn arrived at the Houses of Healing, she did not see her sister. Deciding to look in the courtyard, where there were many gardens that Éowyn was fond of walking around, she hastily went towards it. As she did so, she saw Legolas strolling down the hall. He must have been visiting Frodo: the Ringbearer had taken up residence in the Houses.

"Greetings," he said, nodding at her. She returned the gesture awkwardly, trying to remind herself that he was not Haldor. "Where are you going?" he inquired.

"To the gardens," Gúthwyn replied, gesturing. Through one of the open windows, she caught a glimpse of golden hair beneath a fine young tree. And was that a man? "I am meeting Éowyn's future husband."

"Then I shall not keep them waiting," Legolas said, and stood aside to let her pass. She did so, stepping out onto the green lawn and moving towards the tree. Éowyn was chatting animatedly to the man, whose face she could not see: His back was to her.

Impatient to meet this man, Gúthwyn quickened her stride. Éowyn's eyes moved over the shoulder of her companion, and widened in delight. "Gúthwyn!" she cried, beaming. "Faramir, here she is!" The name did not even have time to register in Gúthwyn's mind before the man had stood up and turned around, displaying a face that she had seen in her worst nightmares.

All of the color drained from her cheeks as she stared at Faramir, captain of the Ithilien Rangers, the man who had shot Borogor and killed him. He recognized her, as well: His blue eyes widened in shock and horror, and he actually took a step back from her. "Gúthwyn," he breathed, sounding sick.

Éowyn glanced back and forth between the two of them, narrowing her eyes in confusion. "Have you met before?" she inquired.

Memories of Faramir—Éowyn's dear, beloved Faramir—bending the bow back and aiming his arrow at Borogor flooded through Gúthwyn, so that for a moment she could not even speak. She merely gaped at Faramir, thinking of all the agony she had suffered because of him. _What is he doing here?_ she thought wildly.

"Gúthwyn?" Éowyn asked, coming up beside Faramir and placing a tender hand on his arm. It was perhaps the cruelest thing Éowyn ever did to her, though her sister had no idea how it tore at her heart until it felt as if it was in shreds.

Swallowing hard, Gúthwyn whispered, "I am sorry." Her voice grew stronger, and she even managed to give a brief curtsy to Borogor's killer. "I felt faint for a moment. Forgive me."

Faramir nodded at her, though his eyes were still wide with disbelief. Yet he would not say anything, if she did not.

"Are you all right?" Éowyn questioned gently. "Maybe you should not have been walking around this morning."

"I am fine," Gúthwyn insisted, though Éowyn might as well have taken a hammer and beaten her over the head with it. "My lord Faramir, it is a pleasure to meet you." Slipping into the numbing role of a dutiful lady, she gave him a small smile. _This has to be some sick, twisted joke,_ she thought as he bowed.

When he had straightened, she said, "Éowyn did not tell me who you were… She wanted to keep it a secret from me."

"Now, now," Éowyn replied, a wide grin across her face. "I wanted you to meet him without any previous judgment hanging over your head."

Gúthwyn nearly choked at her words. Faramir shifted awkwardly on his feet.

"Shall we walk around the gardens?" Éowyn suggested, seeming oblivious to the fact that her sister's meeting with her future husband was less than happy. To make things worse, she slipped a hand into Faramir's, and the soft smile the two of them shared was almost more than Gúthwyn could stand.

Yet she would tolerate this brief encounter for Éowyn's sake, and watch her sister carefully to see if she truly loved Faramir. If she did—her stomach twisted at the thought—then she would not go against her. If she did not, then Gúthwyn would do everything in her power to turn him away. So she agreed to the idea of a stroll, and soon the three of them were making their way across the courtyard.

"Gúthwyn," Éowyn began as they went, "how has your birthday been so far?"

Faramir winced as he glanced at her, knowing all too well what the answer would be, but Gúthwyn found herself in danger of laughing. She should have realized that, since it was her birthday, something bad was bound to happen. Ever since her capture on the day she turned twelve, all of them had been terrible, for one reason or another.

"Well," she finally said, fiddling with her cloak—Borogor's cloak, and she thought Faramir might have recognized it, by the way he was staring at it—"it has been fine."

"Fine," Éowyn repeated, grinning. Her hand was still in Faramir's, delicately massaging the man's fingers. "You are always 'fine,' sister, even when you are not!"

"Happy birthday," Faramir said quietly, his words cutting into her with the careful precision of a knife.

Gúthwyn shrugged, meeting the Steward's eyes briefly and hastily looking away. "If you wish for elaboration," she told Éowyn, picking a leaf from a small tree and beginning the slow and careful process of ripping it to pieces, "then I will tell you that I spent the day walking around the White City."

"Alone?" Éowyn asked, at the same time Faramir inquired, "What did you think of it?"

"I was alone," Gúthwyn answered, tearing a large strip off of the leaf. "Perhaps not the wisest choice, for I became lost. That is why I was late." She did not respond to Faramir's question, suddenly loathing Gondor and all it stood for.

Éowyn laughed. "Gúthwyn has the worst sense of direction out of anyone I have met," she told Faramir. "We used to doubt if she knew her way around Edoras!"

"Of course I do," Gúthwyn snapped, her voice harsher than she had intended.

There was an awkward pause, until Faramir said, "Éowyn tells me that you traveled with my brother."

Puzzled, Gúthwyn glanced at him, unsure of whom he was speaking. "Your brother?"

Éowyn's brow was knitted. "Boromir," she explained.

Gúthwyn halted in her tracks, stunned at the news. "You were _Boromir's_ brother?" she blurted out in astonishment. Aside from their appearances, which were similar to many of the Gondorians', she never would have guessed; indeed, she could hardly fathom it.

Faramir inclined his head. "Many seem surprised when they learn," he replied. "They have a difficult time equating the courageous war captain with the scholar."

_If Boromir's skill lay in killing, then I do not,_ Gúthwyn thought to herself, but did not dare say it aloud. Éowyn seemed extraordinarily glad today, and she would rather die than ruin her happiness.

"You did not know?" Éowyn now asked in puzzlement, frowning. "Were you not aware that Faramir is the Steward of Gondor?"

"No," Gúthwyn said, her face paling a little as she connected Borogor's slayer with good Boromir and the mad Denethor, who had leaped to his death off of the seventh level of Minas Tirith. "I thought… I thought you were a Ranger."

"I was," Faramir said, his eyes saying a thousand times more than his words. "But my father called me back to Osgiliath, as the city was about to fall and he needed all of the available men. My brother was gone, and he put me as a captain in his stead."

"Oh." She scattered the remaining pieces of the leaf on the ground, and followed them with her gaze as they were blown about.

"Gúthwyn," Faramir began hesitantly, his voice sending shivers throughout her body. "Were you friends with Boromir?"

She looked at him, and saw that he genuinely cared for his brother. It was possibly the one thing that the two of them had in common. "Yes," she said, folding her arms over her stomach almost without realizing it. Her voice was softer as she added, "He was a wonderful person, and I grieved to learn that he had perished."

"You did not see his fall?" Faramir asked quietly.

"I was having difficulties of my own," she muttered, flinching as she thought of Haldor pinning her arms to his chest so that she was powerless in his grasp. Éowyn glanced at her sympathetically, but neither of them spoke of what had transpired that day.

There was a brief silence, and then Éowyn said, "Gúthwyn, have you seen the children today?"

Faramir's head turned so fast that she thought it might wrench itself from its neck. "I left them in the care of Tun this morning," she answered, the tiniest smile tugging at the corners of her lips as Faramir's eyes widened. He clearly thought that they were her own; she did not doubt, either, that his mind had flown to Borogor.

"I-I did not know you were married," he said unsteadily.

Gúthwyn glanced at him. "I am not married," she replied, a sudden bitterness coming over her. But for Faramir, she would have been Borogor's wife. "Nor do the children have a father. He was killed a long time ago." She allowed him a few seconds of panic to think about what he had done, and then continued. "So was their mother."

He was caught off guard by this. "I… what?"

"The children are not Gúthwyn's," Éowyn told him, and a look of relief passed over Faramir's face. Gúthwyn felt almost guilty for causing him so much worry a few seconds ago, for making him think that he had killed her lover and the children's father. Yet such sentiments quickly dissipated when Éowyn put her arm comfortably around his waist. "Indeed, how old is Hammel?" her sister inquired, turning to Gúthwyn.

"Nine," Gúthwyn answered, in spite of the situation smiling as she thought of the boy. "Haiweth is six."

"Aye, and Gúthwyn is twenty today," Éowyn said.

A flush swept over Faramir's face. "Forgive me," he murmured, and gave a small bow. "I did not mean to—"

"It is fine," Gúthwyn cut him off, not in the mood to hear his apologies. He fell silent.

For a time, no one said a word. They had completed a circle around the gardens, and though Gúthwyn tired quickly of the seemingly endless rows of flowers, Éowyn and Faramir seemed content. Out of the corner of her eye she observed them. On one occasion, Faramir stooped down to pick up a pure white blossom, slipping it deftly behind Éowyn's ear. She giggled, standing on her tiptoes to place a chaste kiss on his cheek.

Gúthwyn looked away quickly, and felt her mood worsen. For the life of her, she could not understand this change in her sister, who had been so determined to ride into death only a few months ago. She had been stern then, even as she smiled—so she was called the White Lady of Rohan. Yet now there was no trace of that former person, of Gúthwyn's sister.

"Tell me, Éowyn," she said at length: "Have you shown Faramir your skill with a blade? I do not doubt you would give him a worthy challenge."

Éowyn laughed, but shook her head. "Alas," she replied, "I no longer desire to go to war, nor to use my sword."

For a moment, Gúthwyn thought she was hearing things. But as her sister smiled, and squeezed Faramir's hand, she saw that Éowyn was serious. Her jaw dropped. "What has happened to you?" she asked in bewilderment, though not unkindly. "Have I missed that much while I was in the Houses of Healing? The Éowyn I know never passed up a chance to show her prowess with a sword."

"The past few months have been full of change," Éowyn agreed, gazing up at Faramir with a sparkle in her eyes. He cupped her chin gently in his hand, seeming to forget that Gúthwyn was there. The long, lingering look that the two of them shared was like a stone dropping onto her heart and crushing it utterly. She was left with no doubt that the two of them were deeply in love with each other. The reasons escaped her, but it was clear to see that the Steward was smitten with Éowyn, and that her sister cared for him equally.

Unbidden, tears welled up in her eyes. She would never have this happiness that Éowyn so righteously enjoyed. To love someone so tenderly, so wholly, and have it returned—that was what she and Borogor had had, what she had foolishly not realized until it was too late. Now, Borogor was dead, his body cold and decaying in the forests of Ithilien, while his killer walked the earth, holding hands with her sister.

"Excuse me," she whispered, and turned away.

As she strode towards the entrance to the Houses, struggling to keep the tears from spilling over, she heard her name being called. Yet she only hastened her steps, ignoring the screaming protests from her ribs and ankle, needing to get as far away from the Steward and her sister as possible. It was not even noon, and already her birthday had been ruined.


	2. Misinterpretation

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Two:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Two**

Cobryn reclined in a chair outside the Houses of Healing, content to watch the banner of the kings flying proudly above the White Tower of Ecthelion. In his childhood, it had been the emblem of the Stewards fluttering over the city, but that had changed. With the crowning of King Elessar, he knew that a great many wrongs would be righted, and his beloved country would flourish.

He himself had witnessed the generosity and benevolence of Lord Aragorn. On occasion, he had been permitted to watch the proceedings and debates in the White Tower, though not as often as he would have liked. Yet one case dealt with Beregond, a soldier of the city who had slain men bearing torches into the Hallows, where Lord Denethor had sought to burn himself and his son Faramir.

Beregond had done this only to save Faramir, his captain for whom he held great love, and Aragorn had pardoned him. Indeed, he granted to him the job of being the captain of Faramir's guard—for Faramir was now the Prince of Ithilien, given leave to dwell in the hills of Emyn Arnen. Beregond had been overwhelmed with relief; Cobryn had smiled at such open delight. The King Elessar was very merciful.

Others would come to sue for pardon, as well. He knew embassies would be arriving from all corners of Middle-earth, hoping to sign treaties with the new King. It might take a few years for everything to be sorted out, but in the end all would be well. He could feel it: Better days were ahead of them.

For now, however, he sighed, twirling his cane absent-mindedly. It had been made for him before his journey to Gondor, when he had been all but incapable of walking. The trek up to the Firienfeld, when he and Aldor had been searching for Gúthwyn and Éowyn, had damaged his leg far worse than he had originally thought. Shortly afterwards, it had hurt him to simply move it; Aldor had kindly gone to a carpenter and had a cane made.

As much as he hated to admit it, the cane did help. Lebryn had teased him relentlessly about it when he had arrived in Gondor, calling him an old man constantly, but moving around was much easier. Which was best, because there were many places he had wanted to see, places that were familiar to him as a suit of armor that one had outgrown and was admiring from the perch of old age.

He had gone to his former home, where he had wanted to find his parents, yet the house was empty. To be honest, this did not sadden him, as he hardly remembered them anymore. It had been a cautious hope of his, to reunite with the family he had lost so long ago, but he had not placed much faith in it.

Sighing once more, albeit not unhappily, he glanced towards the Houses of Healing. As he did so, a frown crossed over his features. The sight had been brief, though he could have sworn he had just seen a figure sprinting down the corridor. A figure with long dark hair, too slender for her own good… Gúthwyn.

Standing up, wondering what on Middle-earth she was doing running when she was recovering from a broken ankle and ribs, Cobryn made his way into the Houses. He knew where her room was, having visited her several times before, and now walked towards it. There was a bend in the hallway around which she had fled; he heard a door slam shut, and winced. When he rounded the corner, he stood outside the door, pressing his ear against the wooden surface.

Muffled gasps of pain came from inside; clearly, she was in agony. Concerned, he knocked three times. Immediately, all of the noises stopped, just as he had known they would. "Gúthwyn, it is Cobryn!" he called. "May I come in?"

When there was no answer, he slowly turned the knob and swung the door open. As he crossed the threshold, he saw Gúthwyn curled into a tight ball on the bed, clutching her ribs. Her eyes were screwed shut, as if she were willing him to go away. He did not.

"Gúthwyn, what is it?" he asked instead, sitting in the chair beside her bed and drawing it closer.

She was silent.

Disturbed, he said, "Why were you running?"

His friend took a shaky breath, and then cried out softly as her ribs moved.

"Gúthwyn, listen to me," he said sternly, using the same tone of voice he had employed whenever he chastised Lebryn for his behavior. "Lie on your back. Stretch out. Your ribs are only going to get worse if you keep your body like that."

She obeyed him, and he was rewarded with her eyes opening. They were laced with pain, but with grief as well, which surprised him. Yet he did not ask her what was wrong, knowing that soon she would tell him. "Does this hurt?" he inquired, reaching over and gently touching her ribs.

A sharp intake of breath gave him his response. Cobryn did the same with her ankle, receiving equal results. He cursed quietly: Whatever had possessed her to run as if Sauron himself was chasing her, he could not say, but her healing had regressed drastically.

"Cobryn," she muttered at last, wiping her brow. "Will you go outside, and if Faramir or Éowyn comes tell them that I am sleeping?"

Cobryn raised his eyebrows at the unusual request. Gúthwyn loved her sister; he was sure she would have extended the same feelings to her future husband.

"Please," she whispered, and looked so miserable that he nodded. He was standing up when she spoke once more. "If it is Faramir, could you hint that it would be best for him to leave me alone?"

His eyes narrowed. "Gúthwyn, what happened?" he asked, having not the slightest idea what was wrong with her.

"Please, Cobryn, I will tell you soon," she said, swallowing hard. Her blue eyes were wide.

He gazed at her in bewilderment for another moment before turning away and leaving the room. Closing the door behind him, he looked around for a place to sit, utterly lost as to what Faramir had done. He had spoken with the man frequently, though at Éowyn's request had not mentioned his name to Gúthwyn. The Steward was kind and intelligent; he had enjoyed his company very much. It was Faramir who had permitted him to attend some of the councils King Elessar held.

Finding a chair to drag it over next to Gúthwyn's door, he sat down in it, puzzling over this new mystery. He did not have to wait for long until he heard the sound of footsteps falling, drawing nearer with each passing second. An instant later, Faramir the Steward of Gondor had turned the corner, stopping short when he saw Cobryn.

"Good day, my lord," Cobryn said politely, inclining his head.

"Greetings, Cobryn," Faramir replied, and stepped closer. "I wish to speak with Gúthwyn. Is she inside?"

They both knew fully well what the answer was, so Cobryn did not even bother confirming it. "She is sleeping," he said, twirling his cane around.

Faramir looked at him keenly. "Are you sure of that?" he questioned, the disbelief in his voice evident.

"Do you suspect me of lying, my lord?" Cobryn asked, though not abrasively. He had no desire to invoke Faramir's anger, for he liked conversing with the man; nor was he even sure what he had done to make Gúthwyn avoid him.

"I suspect you of not being entirely truthful," was Faramir's response.

"If you are suggesting, then, that she is not sleeping, and therefore does not wish to speak with you, perhaps there is something you have done to deserve such treatment?" Cobryn inquired, keeping his tone level. He did not want to sound as if he was being disrespectful of the Steward.

Faramir's eyes widened, and to Cobryn's surprise he bowed his head. "I understand," he murmured. "Shall I come back another time?"

Cobryn stood up. Leaning on his cane, he hobbled over to the Steward and lowered his voice. "My lord," he said, "I will be blunt with you. For reasons that I am not privy to, she does not want to see you. She wants to be left alone, I believe, for the duration of her stay here. I do not know why this is, and I pray I have not offended you in carrying out her wishes. Even more so, I hope that whatever it is you may have done is not serious."

Faramir's eyes met his, and Cobryn saw in them a mystifying regret. "You have not offended me," he replied quietly. "I am aware of the source of her distress, and I am also aware that there is little I can do to remedy it. Please tell her that I am sorry."

With that, he left. Cobryn watched him go, his mind still trying to figure out what had happened. At length, he shook his head, and went back to Gúthwyn's room. When he opened the door, her eyes were closed and she was breathing evenly as if in deep slumber, but the instant he coughed discreetly she sat up. Her face was ashen.

"What was that about?" Cobryn demanded, crossing the room and sitting down on the chair. "Please tell me why I just sent the Steward of Gondor away. He says he knows, but I do not."

Her eyes grew wide. "He said that?" she asked, wincing as she put a hand on her ribs.

"Yes," Cobryn replied; "also that he was sorry."

For an instant, a wild fury that he had never seen before spread across her face. "Sorry does not even begin to cover it," she snarled, and then slumped back down onto the pillows, burying her face in her hands.

"What has he done?" Cobryn questioned, leaning forward. "I think you owe me an explanation." In his tone was a boldness that he knew he could address her with.

Gúthwyn sighed heavily, and as she lowered her hands it seemed to him that a great many years had been laid upon her shoulders. "I met him a year and six days ago," she murmured wearily, wiping her eyes. "Do you remember me telling you that I went on scouting forays into Ithilien?"

He nodded.

"And do you recall the friend that I would not name?"

"Yes." It had made him wonder, for it was then that her voice had become the most choked up. Her eyes had watered; she who hated weakness, she who did everything to hide her sadness, had almost cried.

Gúthwyn bit her lip. "I loved him," she whispered, and looked away. For a long time, neither of them said anything. Cobryn watched as her face contorted, struggling against losing control of her emotions.

"Was it Faramir?" he asked quietly, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

She turned her head to stare at him. "Faramir _killed_ him," she said, her face pale. Her lips trembled as she continued. "He… He was going to… to ask me to marry him..."

Cobryn's mouth opened slightly. "Gúthwyn, I…" he trailed off, for once at a loss for words.

"It is all right," Gúthwyn said, though it was anything but. "I thought I would never see him again." Her voice was weak and defeated. "Interesting, how out of all the men in the world my sister chose him…"

"Is she aware of this?" he inquired, frowning. From what he had heard and seen of the White Lady, which was admittedly little, he doubted that she would intentionally put her sister through so much anguish.

Gúthwyn was opening her mouth to respond when there came a series of sharp knocks on the door. "Gúthwyn, I know you are awake!" Éowyn's voice filtered into the room, causing Éomund's youngest daughter to stiffen.

The next instant, the door had flung open, and Éowyn walked inside. She stopped short at the sight of Cobryn. "My apologies," she said, glancing back and forth between the two of them. "I did not realize that you were with her."

Cobryn rose out of his chair and offered it to her, though she seemed reluctant to accept it. Her blue eyes darted to his cane.

"I will be fine," Cobryn reassured her. "Please, my lady, sit."

He did not leave the room as Éowyn lowered herself into the chair, but stood off to the side, leaning against the wall and pretending to take no notice of the conversation.

"Why did you leave us?" Éowyn inquired, her concerned eyes on Gúthwyn. "I had wanted you to get to know Faramir."

"Éowyn, I am sorry," Gúthwyn apologized, shifting slightly and grimacing from the pain. "I just… Well, the two of you…" she paused, trying to find the right words. "You looked so happy together, and I did not wish to force my company on you any longer than was necessary."

It was a feeble excuse. Éowyn frowned. "Is something wrong?" she asked. "Did you dislike Lord Faramir?"

"He was fine," Gúthwyn said, a little too quickly. Éowyn's eyes narrowed.

"Gúthwyn, you seemed unhappy throughout the entire meeting. What was it about Faramir that troubled you so?"

"Nothing," Gúthwyn insisted, her voice louder than it should have been. Cobryn shot her a warning glance, but it was too late. Éowyn's face crumpled.

"So you do not like him," she said sadly, twisting the edges of her finely-wrought cloak. "I thought Éomer would be the hardest to win over… I assumed you would find it in your heart to welcome him into the family immediately."

The words were not crafty, but Cobryn had never seen the guilt card—even unknowingly played—work so efficiently on someone. Gúthwyn looked horror-stricken at Éowyn's sorrow. "Nay, it is nothing like that," she said passionately, reaching out for her sister's hand. "Please, Éowyn, believe me when I say this: Faramir is a wonderful man, and he loves you. Who am I to deny you joy?"

Cobryn smiled grimly at her speech, knowing that Gúthwyn was resigning herself to another burden she had to bear. Yet to her it was worth it: Once more, a smile came to Éowyn's face, brilliant as the afternoon sun in all its glory. Gúthwyn loved her siblings, and would put their comfort before hers without a second thought.

"My only problem," Gúthwyn conceded softly, "is that he is taking you away from me—I will miss you in Rohan."

Éowyn's eyes widened, and without another word she leaned over and wrapped her arms around Gúthwyn. "So _that_ was it?" she cried in wonder, as the younger woman embraced her hesitantly in return. "Gúthwyn, you may visit me as often as you wish! And whenever I can, I will go back to Meduseld, so that I might be with our people again."

Gúthwyn nodded weakly, and winced as her sister pulled away.

"Besides," Éowyn continued, looking as if she could hardly contain her relief, "I will not leave you immediately. Faramir and I will celebrate our marriage in Rohan, and I promise we will be staying for at least two weeks."

Cobryn felt a surge of pity for his friend as Éowyn unintentionally made things far worse than they had been. Of all life's cruel tricks, this had to be one of the nastiest he had yet seen.

Gúthwyn's response was to massage her ribs, cringing from the agony.

"No, do not do that," Éowyn said swiftly, lifting her sister's hands and placing them by her side. "It will only hurt more. Do they pain you much?"

Unhappily, Gúthwyn nodded.

"I am sorry," Éowyn apologized fervently, her cheeks turning pink. "I did not even think that you might not be well enough to walk around in the gardens—"

"I was exploring the city beforehand," Gúthwyn interrupted her, waving a hand to dismiss her sister's anxiety. "It was my own fault. Really, I will be fine."

"Then you must get some rest first," Éowyn said. Standing up, she arranged the pillows more comfortably behind Gúthwyn, careful not to jostle her ribs. After bending down and giving her a motherly kiss on the brow, she straightened and added, "I will return later this evening with Éomer, if his duties permit it, and we will have dinner together."

"I am looking forward to it," Gúthwyn replied, swallowing hard.

"Farewell for now," Éowyn murmured, and then stepped back. She gave a brief curtsy to Cobryn, who bowed deeply in response.

"Until we meet again, my lady," he said, and watched as Éowyn left the room, humming a merry tune underneath her breath.

The door shut, and Gúthwyn groaned, once more burying her face in her hands.

"I am sorry," Cobryn spoke, wishing there was something he could to do lessen the blow.

She exhaled wearily. "Forget it, Cobryn," she muttered, running her fingers through her hair. "Thank you for your company."

He nodded. "Are you going to get some rest?"

"I suppose there is nothing else I have to do," Gúthwyn answered ruefully, sighing. Then her eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you know where the children are?" she asked.

"They are with Tun, I believe," Cobryn told her. The guard had taken well to Hammel and Haiweth, and was frequently seen with them around the city. What with Gúthwyn being all but bound to her bed, he had been an invaluable help. _And,_ Cobryn thought with an inward smirk, _it gives him an excuse to see his lady every day._

"If you see him," Gúthwyn began, "will you tell him that he does not have to watch them all day? He has done more than enough. I will be fine taking care of them."

Again, Cobryn nodded. "Have you had anything to eat?" he inquired, remembering that the bells had struck noon not too long ago.

She shook her head. "I am not hungry."

"You should have something," Cobryn said, frowning. "You could use the extra weight."

Gúthwyn shrugged, and told him that she was fine. But as Cobryn was leaving the room a minute later, he saw her face screw up in silent misery, and knew with a sudden foresight that this was just the beginning of her problems.


	3. Happy Birthday IV

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Three:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Three**

_Tap. Tap. Tap, tap-tap-tap, tap._ Gúthwyn's fingers drummed restlessly on her nightstand, rapping out an impatient rhythm. Night had fallen over Gondor, and since it was summer the hour was late—yet still, neither Éowyn nor Éomer had showed up. She was looking forward to having dinner with them, as they had not had a moment alone together since her return to Rohan, though her brother might very well have duties that he needed to attend to.

Éowyn, at the least, had promised to come. Wondering what was taking her so long, she shifted slightly. Her ribs were beginning to feel better—she had foolishly overtaxed them when running away from Faramir.

_Faramir,_ she thought bitterly, now fiddling with the edges of her blanket. Of all the days… Why had she agreed to meet him on her birthday? She should have known that something would go wrong. It was quite possible that she was one of the only people on Middle-earth who dreaded their birthdays, and it was for events like this that she had little reason to celebrate the day.

Her heart was heavy as she gazed around the room. Ever since Cobryn had left her, she had been trapped here with her tormented thoughts. Nearly all of them involved Borogor, painful memories of him stirred up by the appearance of his killer. She had gone through Beregil's book of poems at least ten times that afternoon, but they only brought stinging tears to her eyes.

The children had not returned, either. She was not worried, as she knew that Tun was a capable guardian. He was likely keeping them out of the Houses of Healing to give her some rest, in a thoughtful but misguided gesture. Feelings of loneliness washed over her, keen and biting against the cold stone that was her heart. This birthday had probably been one of the very worst, comparing even to the one where Haldor had manipulated her to come to his tent for information about Hammel. She shuddered as she remembered being pressed against the wall, forced to wrap her legs around his hips to keep steady as he drove mercilessly into her. At least then she had had Borogor to comfort her afterwards.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Hastily, Gúthwyn wiped the tears from her eyes. "Come in," she said.

The door opened, and one of the healers bustled in, carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming soup in her hands. Gúthwyn felt her spirits deflating at the sight of the woman. It was not that she disliked her; indeed, she had only seen her once before, and did not even know her name—but she had hoped that it was Éowyn and Éomer.

"Now," the healer said, setting the meal down on her nightstand. The scent of it wafted up to Gúthwyn's nostrils, and she was nearly sick. "I want you to eat every last drop. One can see all your bones through your dress, child, and it is most unbecoming of someone of your status."

The woman was at least twice her age, but it stung to be called a child. "I am twenty," she muttered.

"Right you are," the healer replied absently, fluffing the pillows on the bed.

"Do you know where my brother and sister are?" Gúthwyn asked her, wondering why she had been brought her food.

The woman straightened, and looked all around her. "Now, where did that boy go?" she questioned. "I could have sworn—"

Hammel's face peered in through the door, and the healer made a noise of recognition. "There you are!" she exclaimed, her voice taking on a scolding tone. "You were supposed to get here before me—what in Ilúvatar's name have you been doing?"

"Please," Gúthwyn interjected, holding her hand up. "That is not necessary. I will speak with him."

"My apologies, my lady," the woman said, bowing. She left the room, and Hammel came inside, making a face at the healer as he went.

"Hammel," Gúthwyn said, smiling at him as he drew nearer. "Have you and Haiweth been occupied today?"

Hammel nodded. "Tun found a few other children for us to play with. Haiweth made some friends."

She did not doubt that. The little girl had such a bubbly personality that very few could harden their hearts towards her. "What about you?" she inquired. "Were there any boys your age?"

He shrugged. "A handful," he responded, and did not elaborate.

"Did you happen to see Éowyn or Éomer, by any chance?" she wanted to know. It had to be past nine at this point.

"Yes," he answered solemnly. "Just over an hour ago. King Elessar had called for a meeting this afternoon to discuss the relations between Gondor and Rohan. It is said that King Éomer will renew his vows of friendship tonight."

So that took care of her brother, then. Gúthwyn felt slightly disappointed, but knew that this was important business that had to be dealt with. She herself would have liked to attend the council, if only her injuries had permitted it. "What of my sister?"

"King Elessar wanted her there," Hammel replied. "He said that she had every right to witness firsthand what was happening. So she went."

"Oh." Gúthwyn's voice was a mere whisper. Her shoulders slumped. _But Éowyn promised!_ the childish part of her protested. She did not want to spend the night alone in her room, cooped up in bed with no one to talk to. And up until a moment ago, she had thought that her sister would be with her… Yet now she had gone to a council, instead.

Such was her misery that she almost did not notice that Hammel was speaking again. When she did, she started, and said, "I am sorry; I did not hear most of what you told me."

"Éowyn sends her regards, and prays that you will rest well tonight. King Éomer wanted me to tell you that he apologizes for not being able to see you on your birthday. He says that if there is anything you desire, be it a new dress or jewels, all you have to do is name it."

Gúthwyn stared in disbelief at the boy. It seemed that with her brother's crown had come a complete lack of common sense. "But I do not want a new dress or jewels," she murmured, more to herself than Hammel. "All I wanted was his company…" Trailing off, she became aware that Hammel was watching her intently, his small eyes narrowed.

Swallowing her upset and frustration, along with the lump in her throat, Gúthwyn ruffled the hair on the child's head. "I am sorry," she said, struggling to smile. "Do not listen to me. Are you going to bed soon?"

He nodded. "Haiweth is already in our room," he informed her. Since most of those wounded in the war had recovered by now, there had been enough space for the Warden to offer them a room all to themselves.

"Well, then, goodnight," Gúthwyn bade him. "Sleep well."

When Hammel had left the room, she felt the grin sliding off of her face, replaced by a burning, prickling sensation in her eyes. Angrily she wiped the tears away before they could slide down her face. She knew she should not have expected much, especially since her brother and sister were busy so often, but it hurt that at least Éowyn could not spend the last unhappy hours of her birthday with her.

_Forget it,_ she told herself sternly. _Stop wallowing in self-pity. You are lucky that you even have your siblings._

Yet she could not help feeling wretched. At length, unable to stand the room and her miserable thoughts, she decided to go on a walk. She was likely to injure herself even more, but suddenly she did not care. _After all,_ she thought, _it is my birthday, and I might as well enjoy it in what small way I can._

Pushing the bedcovers away, she turned so that her legs were dangling over the floor. There was a slight pain from her ribs, though it was nothing that she could not bear. Cautiously, she put some weight on her feet. Her right ankle nearly gave out at first, but she persisted, and at length was able to stand on it.

Slowly she made her way out of the room, careful not to make any noise. She did not want anyone to intercept her and condemn her back to her bed. As she went, she thought she heard a noise in the hall, and froze; however, it must have been her imagination, for the seconds passed and there was no sound. She started walking again, grimacing ever so often. The pain was not terrible, but occasionally there were sharp bursts of it.

Passing out of the Houses of Healing undetected, Gúthwyn decided to walk to the north-facing section of the city, where she might gaze towards her home. Luckily, it was not a long trek, for the sixth level of Minas Tirith was relatively small, but she experienced enough discomfort to mercifully take her mind off of the day's events.

At length she stopped, placing her hands on the stone parapet and glancing up at the Tower of Ecthelion. Éowyn and Éomer were there right now, discussing the fate of Rohan. Such a wave of sadness came over her that she nearly collapsed beneath it. She was all alone on her birthday, the one day of the year when everything should have been wonderful, and the one day of the year when everything seemed to go horribly wrong.

Leaning on the battlements, she fought against the tears that were threatening to overwhelm her. Was it so much to ask that she be happy on her birthday? Was it just so impossible that for once, something might make the day worthwhile?

"Borogor," she whispered, hearing his name and trying to get some comfort out of it. Yet there was none. Her mind drifted back to meeting Faramir. How cruel was fate, to choose the man who had slain Borogor as her sister's husband? Éowyn had fallen in love with him in only three months, only a season—how was that possible? Where had her sister gone? Éowyn, the shieldmaiden of Rohan, who cared about men only in terms of their fighting prowess?

And now she would be forced to watch as her sister married Faramir, forced to watch as she left Rohan to live in Ithilien with him, forced to watch their kisses and tender embraces and even their children. Part of her was angry with Éowyn for doing this to her, and for Éomer giving his consent to their union, but she knew that neither of them were aware of what Faramir had done. Even Faramir could not be blamed, as he had not known whom she was.

Gúthwyn felt as if she was going to lose her siblings. Already, Éowyn was betrothed. Éomer was the king of Rohan, and would be expected to find a queen so that she might give him an heir. That left her, alone and without Borogor.

_You will not be alone,_ she tried to remind herself. _You will have Hammel and Haiweth with you._

That was true, and she loved the children with all her heart, but they were not the same as having a husband. Furthermore, what would she do when her brother married? She did not want to be a burden on him, especially when he had a wife and child to care for. But where would she go? Would he allow her to stay in Meduseld? If he did not, or could not, then what would happen? She had no one else to turn to; not for her life would she ask Éowyn if she could live with her and Faramir.

In the midst of her despair, Gúthwyn did not realize—as many who are blinded by their grief cannot—that her fears were needless. Instead, she thought of how lonely she suddenly felt. Indeed, Éowyn and Éomer had already abandoned her to pursue matters of more consequence. And she did not begrudge them much, for she knew that the meeting was of utmost importance to the future of Rohan, but she wished that Aragorn had not called it today.

Burying her face in her hands, she tried to dry the tears in her eyes before they escaped. What was wrong with her? Why was she so weak? She had endured far worse than this, yet she was hurt as she had rarely ever been. And she had no right to be: She was alive, Éowyn and Éomer were alive, Hammel and Haiweth were safe, and the shadow had been banished from Middle-earth.

"Gúthwyn?"

She gasped and whirled around, instinctively lifting her hands to protect herself. Legolas stood in front of her, looking concerned. "What are you doing out here?" he asked quietly.

For a terrifying moment, thoughts of Haldor welled up inside of her, and she could not speak for horror. But at length she swallowed her emotions, and lowered her hands with a flush coming to her face. As she did so, her ribs shrieked in agony. She was unable to repress a soft gasp.

"I was walking," she managed to explain, gesturing at the empty street they were on. Most of the Gondorians had already retired to their homes; those that had not were in the pubs on the lower levels of the city.

A moment passed in which neither of them said anything. Legolas joined her, asking silent permission with his eyes before standing next to her and looking out over the Pelennor Fields. "Should you not be resting?" he inquired.

Somehow repressing the urge to edge away from him, Gúthwyn replied, "That is what my sister said." She could not keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Legolas glanced at her. "Is everything all right?"

She heaved a sigh. "It is nothing," she murmured wearily, looking away so that he could not see the misery in her eyes.

"Are you sure?" he asked gently, sounding so much like Haldor in the days of her blind infatuation with him that she shivered and wrapped her arms around her stomach.

"It has not been a good day," Gúthwyn at last admitted, and turned back to face him. As much as she was nervous around Legolas, she wanted someone to talk to. Her confinement in the Houses of Healing had been lonely, as Éomer was always locked away in the conference chambers with some business or other, and Éowyn was frequently in Faramir's company. Today aside, she had not seen her siblings for nearly a week.

Sensing her sadness, Legolas allowed her a few minutes to collect her thoughts. "Do you want to talk about it?" he questioned.

Gúthwyn looked up at him, debating whether or not to take him up on his offer. It would be a relief to siphon off some of the day's melancholy, but there were some things that she could not, would not tell him. "Well," she sighed eventually, "I rather hoped…" She paused, not quite sure how to word what she was trying to say. Her birthday she did not want to mention to him, for it would seem as if she was seeking attention.

Legolas' eyes held hers as she finally said, "I had hoped today would be… uneventful, at the least."

"Uneventful?" Legolas repeated, inviting her to elaborate. "Any particular reason?"

"I met Faramir this morning," she blurted out, not wanting to answer the last inquiry. A look of understanding washed over him. "And as much as I love my sister…" She trailed off, not wishing to sound as if she resented Éowyn's happiness.

"You do not want her to leave," Legolas finished, and she nodded, seizing the excuse.

"I have only been with her since March," Gúthwyn whispered. The lump in her throat grew, so that it was difficult to speak. "I was unconscious during April and most of May, and when I awoke she told me that she was marrying!"

"It may not have been the best timing," Legolas said, "but you could have found out from someone else."

"True," she conceded, swallowing. "Yet she seems to be spending all of her time with him. I never see her or Éomer anymore." Mortification washed over her as she said this, for she could only imagine how ungrateful and childish she must have appeared, but Legolas' expression did not change. "I-I know," she began, trying to make amends, "that they have other things to do than visit me. It is just…"

She looked down, so that he did not see her eyes glistening. "I am sorry—I did not mean to…"

A tremor ran through her as he reached out and gently lifted her chin. "You have nothing to be ashamed of," he said, letting go of her when she flinched. "Everyone knows that you love your siblings."

His words could not assuage the grief that she had been carrying around with her all day. He only knew half of what troubled her. "No," she replied, shaking her head. "I should not… But today…"

Again, Gúthwyn fell silent, glancing to the north. She did not even know when they were returning home.

"What about today?" Legolas' voice was quiet and undemanding.

"It is nothing," she muttered. "Éowyn just promised to have dinner with me, that is all."

Legolas was silent, but she could see the pity in his eyes, and felt a surge of embarrassment. "Forget it," she said, angry with herself for being so foolish. "It is nothing." How many times had she used that phrase tonight? "I am being selfish. Éowyn and Éomer are in council with King Elessar, discussing Gondor's relations with Rohan."

Now the tears were even harder to conceal. She turned away, wrapping her arms tighter around herself.

"Is there anything I can do?" Legolas asked, and she shook her head—more vigorously, perhaps, than she had intended to.

"Why are you not at the meeting?" she inquired, trying to change the topic. Legolas was an Elf, and therefore not from Rohan, but as his best friend was now the King of Gondor, she assumed that he would be interested in the proceedings.

To her slight surprise, he said, "I have rarely attended the councils. Politics of Men hold little significance to the Elves."

"Oh," she replied, unsure of how to respond. "What have you been doing the past few months, then?"

"Walking around with Gimli," Legolas answered. "Aragorn wishes for us to remain in Minas Tirith for a time, and though he will not say why I have a guess."

She glanced back at him in confusion, wondering what he meant. "Does he not enjoy your company?"

He smiled. "Aye, he does," he said. "But I have not seen much of him, for he has been cooped up in the Tower with business. His job requires no small amount of work, particularly in light of all that has happened."

She nodded glumly. "Éomer is the same way. I suppose it will only get worse when he is officially crowned." Her brother had not even become king yet, and already she missed him.

"Éomer will make time for his family," Legolas assured her, leaning against the battlements and looking down over the rest of the White City. "You need not worry."

"How do you know?" she asked, her voice hardly a whisper.

"My father is a king, too," he told her, and her eyes widened: She had forgotten that he was a prince. "He never neglected me, just as Éomer will never neglect you or Éowyn."

Gúthwyn looked into his eyes, but they contained no trace of a lie. A deep flush spread across her cheeks. "I am sorry," she apologized again, lowering her gaze. "You are right. I should not be…"

For a long time, neither of them spoke. In spite of what she was trying so desperately to convince herself to believe, Gúthwyn could not help but feel even more miserable than she had before: Now, on top of everything, she had dragged Legolas into her problems.

"Maybe you should retire for the evening," the Elf now suggested, without a hint of annoyance in his tone. Instead, he gestured to her ribs and ankle. "I would not want you to strain yourself."

"Right," she murmured, wincing as she touched her ribs. "Thank you for your time. I hope I have not troubled you too much with my petty concerns."

"They are not petty," Legolas said firmly. "And you did not trouble me at all. I only wish I could have helped you more."

"I am fine," Gúthwyn replied, and turned away from him.

The next instant, she nearly collapsed as her ankle twisted beneath her. She was tumbling to the ground when two hands caught her arms, bringing her to a halt. Legolas pulled her to her feet, and instinctively she lifted her bad ankle so that there was no weight on it. Yet this meant that she was relying on Legolas for support.

"Let me help you back," he said as she tried to pull away from him.

"No," she responded hastily, a sharp spike of fear shooting through her. "I can make my way back myself, really. I am—"

"Gúthwyn," Legolas cut her off, not loosening his hold on her. "You are not fine, if that is what you intended to say."

She fell silent, for that was, in fact, what she had been about to tell him. Yet his hands were burning her skin, and so she struggled against him.

"Gúthwyn, please," Legolas said, effortlessly keeping her in his grasp. "I am only trying to help you. You cannot walk back to the Houses of Healing on your own."

"Yes, I can," she ground out, twisting away. Then she gasped in pain, for her ribs had jolted.

Legolas turned her around to face him. "Gúthwyn," he said, looking her straight in the eye. She blinked, now trembling. "I promise, you will be safe with me."

"I…" she trailed off, unable to form a reasonable protest.

He knew what was going through her mind. "I promise," he repeated sincerely.

She had no choice but to accept. "Fine," she muttered, gritting her teeth and praying that the walk would not be long.

Legolas nodded. "You can put your arm around my shoulders," he said, and she did so, shuddering a little at such close contact. Then she whimpered, for he had wrapped his right arm about her waist, his hand resting on her stomach.

"No," she found herself whispering, dangerously close to tears.

He looked at her, and seeing the distress in her eyes he put his hand so that it was just above her hip, not touching her stomach. Gúthwyn gulped: It was a slight improvement, but not by much.

"My apologies," he said quietly. She could not meet his gaze, and stared fixatedly down at the street.

The way back to the Houses of Healing seemed to take an eternity to traverse. Legolas' support did take much of the pain away from her, yet it was replaced by memories of Haldor that were a thousand times worse. All she wanted to do now was to fall asleep and put this horrible day behind her.

When they finally entered the Houses, he escorted her to her room and opened the door. Her heart sank as she realized that he intended on helping her to the bed as well. Fighting back a sob, she allowed him to do as he wished, all the while afraid that he would not stop; afraid that he would lower himself on top of her, triumphing over her weakness, and push the ends of her dress around her hips to…

_No!_ she screamed at herself silently. _Do not think about that!_

And then she paused, for there was something on her nightstand that had not been there when she left. It was a small package, clumsily wrapped, with a piece of paper attached to it. With Legolas beside her, she reached out for the note, unfolding it with shaking hands. In painstakingly deliberate handwriting were written four words.

"_Happy birthday from Hammel,_" she breathed, her heart skipping several beats.

Legolas looked at her swiftly. "Today was your birthday?" he asked.

She nodded, and his eyes widened with sudden understanding. "I-I am sorry," he said. "I did not know. Happy birthday."

At his words, she felt the tears coming once more. Trying to distract herself, she took the package, carefully unwrapping it. By the light of several candles in the room, a wooden toy horse was revealed. Hammel had obviously made it himself: the edges were roughly hewn, and rather uneven, but it was unmistakably an image of Heorot. She could see the familiar eyes gazing at her.

"By the Valar…" she murmured, holding it up to examine it better. "This is amazing!"

The toy began to blur through the tears in her eyes. Little Hammel, of all people, had been the only one to understand what this day truly meant to her.

Legolas remained silent, watching her reaction. The lump in her throat was now so hard that she could barely even whisper. "Thank you," she at last managed, clutching the horse tightly and moving away from him.

"Are you going to be all right?" he asked, his gaze worried.

Gúthwyn nodded. "I will be fine," she choked out, hating the lie even as it fell from her lips. "Really, just…"

He released her, inclining his head. She could hardly stand the sympathy in his eyes. "I am sorry," he said once more, and bowed. Gúthwyn hardly noticed. "Goodnight."

She was incapable of forming a coherent reply, and so he left, closing the door softly behind him.

That night, Gúthwyn cried herself to sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Heh, whoops, remember the very first book of the trilogy, Alone? Well, I ended up adding a new chapter to it (chapter thirty-seven, "Unwanted Child"), which didn't make it the first time around. The reason? It's a mainly gratuitous chapter, and totally not necessary to anything, so even now I'm not sure whether or not I should have posted it. But if you feel like it, go ahead and read it! 


	4. The Arrival of Prince Imrahil

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Four:  
**For Imrahil's appearance, I have formed a compromise between the descriptions of the book and the pictures of the movie. The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Four**

"Gúthwyn, wake up."

She groaned, stirring and trying to ward off with her hands the irksome voice. Sleep… that was what she wanted, what she needed…

Something rapped her on the head. Hard. "Wake up."

"Stop," she moaned, feebly protecting herself from the blows with her arms. For Ilúvatar's sake, even the sun was against her—it burned into her eyes, stinging fiercely.

There was another tap on her skull, and she gave up. Blinking rapidly, Gúthwyn struggled to see who was waking her at this hour. Her gaze focused on Cobryn, who was standing smugly over her. He held his cane in his hands.

"Cobryn!" she cried in exasperation, closing her eyes again. But it was no use: She was now fully awake. "What are you doing? It is too early in the morning for this!"

As she spoke, the events of yesterday came rushing back to her in all their wretched glory.

"Gúthwyn, my friend, it is well past noon," Cobryn informed her, now reaching over to pull the warm blankets off of her. He stopped short at the sight of her expression. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

She sighed, not wanting to relive the abysmal mess that had been her birthday. "I am just tired," she replied, rubbing at her eyes. "You must be lying. It cannot be anywhere near noon."

"Indeed, it has come and gone," Cobryn responded, whipping the covers off her. Gúthwyn winced as a blast of cool air washed over her.

"Why did you wake me?" she complained, though she was not too angry with him.

"Because I have something for you," he answered with a flourish.

She knitted her eyebrows in confusion as she struggled to sit up. "For me?"

"Aye." Then, to her wonder and delight, he reached behind him and picked up something that had been leaning against the chair: A set of wooden crutches.

For a moment, she stared at them. "Thank you so much," she finally breathed, letting out a sigh of relief. "You have no idea…"

"I think I do," he said, grinning at her joy as he settled into the chair. Lacing his hands together, he regarded her for a time. "Last evening, Hammel told me that it was your birthday."

She winced.

"Why did you not tell me?" he wanted to know, frowning. "I would have had the crutches done sooner. As it was, all I could do was help Hammel write his note."

"It was not important," Gúthwyn told him. Right now, all she really wanted to do was forget about it. "Thank you, though."

He did not look as if he was placated by her comment, but he merely said, "Would you like to walk around the city?"

"Absolutely." She nodded firmly, sick of being confined to her bed. Granted, she had left it on a number of occasions, usually after spending hours arguing about it with the healers, but for the most part she had been lying down the past two weeks.

Smiling, he asked, "Where do you want to go?"

"The Tower of Ecthelion," she answered immediately, sighing as she thought of that which she had been meaning to do for days. "I intend to see my uncle, for I have not yet done so."

Cobryn nodded, sympathy in his eyes. "Do you wish to go alone?" he inquired.

She shook her head. "I will not be long. Besides, I will get lost without someone to help me."

"You do have that remarkable sense of direction," Cobryn smirked, then ducked as she threw a pillow at him.

"Should I send for someone to help you get dressed?" he asked as he straightened. Gúthwyn glanced down at her outfit. She was wearing the same clothes that she had yesterday—she had not changed out of them. All the same, she did not want anyone helping her with such a simple task, one that she had been able to do since she was four years old. The healers had been surprised when she had adamantly refused their aid, but she would not relent.

"No," she said, sitting up straighter. "I will be out in a few minutes."

"Pride, Gúthwyn." Cobryn shook his head in amusement. "You have too much of it."

She forced a thin smile upon her lips. "Then leave your proud friend be, so that she can get dressed and then beg for your company to the White Tower."

He laughed, and got out of his chair. When he had left the room, and the shutting of the door announced his departure, Gúthwyn's shoulders slumped. Yet another reminder of what she had endured at Haldor's hands, of how much dignity she had lost—when would she ever get away from it?

_It is no matter,_ she tried to tell herself sternly. _Do not think about him. Get out of bed and get dressed. Cobryn is waiting._

She managed to get to her feet, though she had to hop her way to the set of drawers. It had been placed as far away from her bed as possible, probably because the healers were trying to discourage their patients to do the task themselves. Yet she made her way to it determinedly, and at last pulled out one of the drawers. Briefly she rummaged around in it, withdrawing one of the grey dresses that she had grown accustomed to wearing.

Then she frowned, trying to think of how she would get her clothes off and the new garments on if she only had the use of one leg. _Curse these gowns!_ she thought angrily to herself. Now that she had reassumed her position as a lady, she would be forced to wear them every day.

Already feeling the burdens of the civilized world, she somehow worked her way through the arduous process of getting dressed. There was one moment when she needed to rely on her bad ankle for support, and though it pained terribly it mercifully did not give out on her. Then she hopped back to her crutches, realizing sheepishly that she could have used them on her way to the dresser, and put them under her arms.

She opened the door to see Cobryn in a nearby chair waiting for her. "Sorry for the delay," she apologized, motioning to the crutches. "I still need to get used to these."

"No matter," he said, getting to his feet. "Are you ready?"

"No," Gúthwyn replied. A faint smile spread across her face. "I need to see Hammel."

* * *

"Éomer?"

"My apologies," the king of Rohan muttered, rubbing his eyes. The morning's meeting, regarding what was to be done about the Corsairs of Umbar—legions of pirates who controlled Gondor's largest trade port—had completely drained him of energy. When he became a king, he had known that there would be many such instances where he was utterly sick of his duties, but he had not imagined that he would feel so overwhelmed every day.

"You look tired," Elessar said as they made their way down the winding stairs of the White Tower. A host of councilors and scribes was behind them, each carrying several scrolls and bottles of ink.

"My lord, you are hardly one to talk," Éomer replied. Aragorn's eyes revealed the exhaustion of countless council sessions, signed treaties, pardons given, and all the other work to which he was bound as the King of Gondor.

The former Ranger gave a sardonic laugh. "I suppose you are right," he admitted. "Perhaps I should have delayed last night's meeting."

"No, that was one of the few that held my attention the entire way through," Éomer answered. Much of what had been discussed then would affect his people, and he had needed to be well aware of what exactly he was agreeing to with each treaty. Aragorn would never do anything dishonorable, but it was not the mark of a king to blindly sign his way through his reign. _Just as my uncle did,_ he thought briefly, and then immediately berated himself. Théoden's senility had been due to Wormtongue, who had received the death that he deserved: unmourned, his body unburied.

However, the meeting—which had concluded with arrangements to travel to Halifirien at a later date and re-exchange the vows of friendship that Eorl and Cirion had sworn hundreds of years ago—could have been called at a better time. Gúthwyn's birthday had also been yesterday, and from his understanding, Éowyn had assumed that the two of them would be able to have dinner with her in a small celebration. Never had he felt the constraints of being a king so sharply as when he had sent little Hammel to her with the news that she would be on her own for the night. He hated having to leave her alone, but there was nothing to be done.

Éomer was so preoccupied that he did not notice when Aragorn began to speak again, and was rewarded with his name being sharply called.

"Sorry," he said ruefully. "I was lost in my thoughts."

"I can see that," King Elessar muttered, although he was not angry. "Hopefully Prince Imrahil will be able to entertain you more, but until tonight I am afraid you will have to tolerate my less than compelling presence."

Ah, the Prince Imrahil. Éomer had quite forgotten that he, his daughter Lothíriel, and his sons Elphir, Erchirion, and Amrothos were due to arrive in Minas Tirith today. Imrahil had been with them during the War of the Ring, but afterwards he had gone back to his realm of Dol Amroth beside the sea to ordain his country according to the new laws of the Free Peoples. Éomer had spoken with the prince before, and found his company quite enjoyable. Imrahil it was who had first perceived that Éowyn was alive, when all had thought her dead.

"Well," Éomer said as they came into the throne room, "I suppose I can bear it for a few more hours."

Aragorn sent him a good-natured glare, but their banter was interrupted when Faramir entered the room from one of the lower chambers. Éomer watched the Steward of Gondor as he came over to them. At first, he had been loath to even allow Éowyn to spend time with him, once she had made it clear that he had captured her heart. He had not understood the change that came upon her, so drastic and unprecedented that he had wondered if her mind had been damaged by the Nazgûl's assault.

Yet he had observed her and Faramir from afar, oftentimes when they were not aware of him. His men had teased him endlessly about it, adding in more serious tones that he was far too cautious for his own good, but he had persisted. And he had seen for himself the tenderness with which the Steward treated his sister, and the esteem she clearly held for him. It still mystified Éomer as to how their love had been born—though if Faramir made Éowyn happy, as was most certainly the case, he would not deny her such a husband. As much as he was reluctant to see her go, he had known that this would eventually come, and Faramir would see that she was well cared for.

Indeed, Faramir was a worthy man. He had fought courageously against the enemies of Gondor, and had a noble, chivalrous air about him. Not once had Éomer heard an unkind word from him, and he had tried so hard to make amends with the king of Rohan for the crime of loving his sister that it was almost laughable. Éomer had been tempted to delay the announcement of his consent, just for the amusement of seeing him on tenterhooks, but in the end he had relented.

"Greetings, Faramir," Éomer now said, inclining his head towards the man. Faramir bowed low, a relieved smile on his face as he returned the welcome.

"How did your search go?" Aragorn inquired. The Steward had been excused from the meeting in order to go through his father's possessions, many of which had been locked away in various underground rooms.

"I went through his letters and most of his books," Faramir replied with a grimace.

Éomer left them then, not wanting to broach what was likely a sensitive topic. He was about to go to see Théoden, who lay not too far away on a bier surrounded by guards, but then someone hailed him.

Turning around, he saw Legolas approaching him. "May I have a word?" the Elf queried, a stray beam of sunlight making his hair golden. "It is about Gúthwyn."

Éomer's eyes narrowed. "Is she all right?" he demanded immediately, drawing closer. He thought he saw Faramir glance in their direction, and shifted so that his back was to the man.

It was one of the few times he had seen the Elf look discomforted. "I was speaking with her last night," he said in a low voice. "She had gotten out of bed and was walking around the sixth level."

Éomer winced. "By herself?" He could only imagine how much damage she had wreaked upon her ankle and ribs. What on Middle-earth had possessed her to defy her healers in this manner, he did not know.

"Yes," Legolas confirmed, and then hesitated. "Éomer," he began at length, "it may not be my business, but… she was rather upset last night."

The king of Rohan felt his spirits deflate. He had hoped that Gúthwyn would forgive him for not seeing her on her birthday. "She was?" he asked quietly.

Legolas nodded, and seemed reluctant to continue. "It is my impression that she has been… rather lonely the past two weeks. She knows that you and Éowyn are busy, and she was half-ashamed at her words, but she feels like she has not seen her brother and sister at all."

With Legolas' words came a horrible wave of guilt. It was true. Éomer had barely spoken to either of his sisters this month. A wave of visitors, meetings, and treaties had kept him so busy that he hardly even had time to sleep, never mind visit his family.

Now he groaned, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. "I feel horrible," he muttered, more to himself than to Legolas. "I should have sent her a gift, or…"

"Spend some time with her," Legolas told him firmly. "Something tells me she would rather have your company than a present."

Éomer looked at him, and the Elf bowed. "My apologies," he said. "I would not have spoken, but for the fact that it grieved my heart to see her so miserable."

The king of Rohan was about to respond when the sound of the doors opening attracted his attention. Turning, he saw Gúthwyn making her way inside, using a pair of crutches as a support. Cobryn, Hammel, and Haiweth were with her. She had come to see Théoden.

"Good luck," Legolas said softly, and left him.

* * *

"Remember," Gúthwyn cautioned in an undertone to Hammel and Haiweth, just before the guards opened the doors into the White Tower, "be very quiet. There might be a council occurring, and it would not be good to disturb the men."

Haiweth pouted, already disliking the place, but Gúthwyn knew she would not utter a sound unless spoken to. Being rather accustomed to silence, Hammel did not even blink. He merely exchanged a glance with Cobryn, who had gone with them to the Tower, desiring to look upon the king as well.

As the doors swung open, Gúthwyn glanced into the hall beyond, and what she saw made her heart freeze. For gathered in the foyer were three men whom she least wished to see, out of fear that she would not be able to conceal her emotions: Éomer, Legolas, and Faramir. The latter was speaking with Aragorn and various other Gondorian nobles. Éomer and Legolas were conversing together, but upon her entrance Legolas nodded at her brother and left.

Nearly everyone in the hall was staring at her and the children. Some of them, she did not doubt, thought they were her own—though they knew she was not married. Those close to her watched sympathetically as she navigated her way towards King Elessar, wobbling slightly on the crutches. Legolas passed her by while she went, and when he gave a short bow to her she nearly lost her footing. Cobryn had to steady her before she was able to continue again.

"Your highness," Gúthwyn said when she at last stood in front of Aragorn. She could not very well curtsy, but she managed to incline her head in what she hoped was a respectful manner. Her hands trembled as she became aware of Faramir's keen gaze settled on her.

"Lady Gúthwyn," Aragorn greeted her, a smile on his face though his eyes were tired. "I trust you are out with the permission of your healers?"

She flushed, and he chuckled. "I am sure they would not begrudge me a few hours," she muttered. The nobles' eyes never blinked as they followed her, occasionally settling on the children; then she realized she had not introduced Hammel or Haiweth. "My apologies," she murmured. "You have met Cobryn"—her friend bowed deeply—"but have you met Hammel and Haiweth?"

The two children shuffled forward, Haiweth unwilling and staring up nervously at all the unfamiliar men. Hammel gave a small bow.

"Indeed, I have had the pleasure," Aragorn said. Éomer joined the group then, and though she gave him a hesitant smile, she hastily reverted her attention back to the King. "We saw each other when I went to inquire about your condition at the beginning of May."

"Pray tell, my lady," one of the nobles said then, his voice smooth as silk, "are those wonderful children yours? I was not aware that you were married."

"They are not," Éomer quickly replied.

"I am taking care of them," Gúthwyn explained, smiling at the Gondorian. He did not look as if he approved of the idea, but did not deign to say anything. Once or twice, his eyes flicked to Cobryn. Hammel glared at him briefly.

"Gúthwyn," Aragorn began, gesturing towards Faramir, "have you met the Steward of Gondor?"

She could feel her heart painfully constricting as she met eyes with Borogor's killer. "Yes," she said, though her voice was hardly more than a whisper. "Yes, we have met."

"Actually, my lord," Faramir started awkwardly, "I think I shall return to my father's library, for I hope to be done cleaning it by this evening. If you will excuse me."

With that he bowed, and hastily left the throne room. Éomer's eyes narrowed as he went; Aragorn glanced back and forth between her and the departing Steward. "Is there a grievance between the two of you?" he inquired in a low voice.

"A grievance?" Gúthwyn echoed, assembling her features into a puzzled expression. Aragorn did not press the issue, though she knew that he did not believe her words as readily as the others did. In order to take his mind off of the matter, she said, "I was wondering if I might be permitted to see Théoden, for I have not yet gotten the chance to."

"Of course," Aragorn replied. "Would you like assistance?"

"I can make do with the crutches, thank you," Gúthwyn said, smiling. With a nod of her head, she excused herself, motioning for Hammel and Haiweth to follow. Éomer bowed, and fell into step beside her as she began making her way towards the dais. Her jaw clenched as she saw him.

"How are you?" he inquired softly.

"I am fine," she answered, trying not to think of her miserable birthday.

Her brother did not say anything, and soon they had reached Théoden's bier. Hung with green and white cloth, it was surrounded by twelve guards: six from Rohan, and six from Gondor. She saw Tun there, his eyes fixed on her. A small smile briefly illuminated her face, though it quickly dissipated when she looked down at her uncle.

All of the years seemed to have melted from him, and in the flickering light of the torches born by the guards he appeared to be a young, hale man again. A blanket of gold covered him, upon which was laid his sword Herugrim. At his feet was the shield he had born into battle. Sorrow drenched her, and for a long time she stood with her head bowed, staring at his motionless face.

It pained her to realize that she had never truly reunited with him. The lies of Haldor had poisoned her against him, so that for years she had loathed his memory. Even when she had returned to Rohan, she had still been ill at ease around him, and cringed from his touch whenever he embraced her. The whispers of Haldor had continued, always seeking to turn her away from him. And so Gúthwyn had not loved her uncle the way she should have, nor had she been able to grieve much for his passing—only her regret made it difficult to bear.

A small hand clenched hers. Looking down, she saw Haiweth's wide eyes staring up at her, arms uplifted for a boost. The girl could not see over the top of the bier.

"Will you hold these?" she mouthed at Cobryn, gesturing towards the crutches. He frowned, clearly not liking the thought of her abandoning the supports when she had not yet recovered from her injuries, yet accepted them all the same.

"Gúthwyn," Éomer muttered, of equal mind as Cobryn, but she ignored him and reached down to pick Haiweth up. Her ribcage screamed in protest as she lifted the girl. Settling her comfortably onto her hip, conscious to avoid contact with her ribs, Gúthwyn edged closer to the bier so that Haiweth could see better.

"Is that your uncle?" Haiweth asked curiously, one thumb firmly in her mouth.

"Yes," Gúthwyn whispered, adjusting her arms so that they carried less weight. Either Haiweth had gotten heavier, or she had gotten weaker. _Likely the latter,_ she thought ruefully.

"Was he nice?" Haiweth wanted to know, gazing steadily at Théoden. Her brow was knitted in concentration.

Gúthwyn swallowed. "He was a good man," she at last said.

Haiweth rested her head on Gúthwyn's shoulder. "Do you think he is with Mama and Papa?"

"Haiweth," Hammel hissed as loudly as he dared. His fists were clenched, the frame of his thin body taut.

"He may very well be," Gúthwyn murmured, wincing slightly: Her ribs were beginning to hurt.

No one said anything for another moment, and at length Gúthwyn lowered Haiweth to the floor. "I think it is time to go," she decided.

Cobryn handed her back her crutches, and she accepted them gratefully. Éomer stirred. "Are you going back to the Houses?" he queried.

Gúthwyn shrugged, not liking the suggestion in the least. Her brother saw the expression on her face and chuckled quietly. "I thought not," he spoke. "Would you care to join me for the afternoon? Some of the men are training in the first level—perhaps we could observe them."

Her eyes lit up, widening at the same time. Amidst the line of somber guards, Tun briefly smiled. "Really?" she asked, wondering why he did not have a meeting. "Are there not duties you have to attend to?"

He shook his head, looking pleased at her delight. "None today."

"I would love to accompany you there," Gúthwyn declared, beaming. Slowly but surely, the memories of yesterday were fading from her mind.

"Excellent!" Éomer exclaimed.

* * *

Ten minutes later found Gúthwyn, Éomer, and the children making their way down to the lower levels of the White City. Cobryn had decided not to go, saying that he needed some rest. Gúthwyn was not too concerned; she was content to spend her time with her brother, whom she had not seen for days.

"How was the meeting last night?" she inquired tentatively as they came to the fourth level.

"It went well," Éomer replied, watching her carefully. At length, he sighed. "Gúthwyn, I am sorry for—"

"It is fine," Gúthwyn said, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. "I am just glad that we are together now." Hammel glanced at her.

Éomer still did not look satisfied. "Is there anything I can—"

"Éomer, please, do not trouble yourself. I am fine," Gúthwyn insisted.

He opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment a horn sounded in the distance. It had a clear ringing voice, somehow bringing to Gúthwyn's mind thoughts of the far off sea, though she had never swum in its waters before.

"The delegation of Dol Amroth!" Éomer said then, recognizing the call. "They were supposed to arrive today."

"Let us go down to the gates, then," Gúthwyn suggested. The gates were crudely constructed wooden ones, mere echoes of those that had been knocked down by Sauron's servants, though apparently Gimli had agreed to write to his relations in the distant mountains for aid in building new ones.

Éomer agreed to this, and the children seemed excited at the idea of seeing new people, so they hastened their strides. Already the streets were crowded with Gondorians flocking to the first level. Gúthwyn had to work to make sure that she did not bump into anyone, for fear of hurting them with her crutches; she also kept a close eye on the children, not wanting to become separated from them.

When they at last arrived at the gates, she could not see very well, as they were in the back of a large mass of people.

"What is going on?" Haiweth complained, her view obscured by countless pairs of legs.

To Gúthwyn's slight surprise, Éomer reached down and picked the girl up, hoisting her on his broad shoulders so that she was two feet above everyone. At first, Gúthwyn was worried that Haiweth would fall, but Éomer was holding her tightly.

"Brother," Gúthwyn teased him, smiling, "what will the men say of their tough king now?"

He growled at her, though he knew she was jesting. "Say what you will, sister," he retorted. "When we return home, I will force you to endure manners lessons for that comment."

She rolled her eyes. "Whom would that torture more: me, or the teacher?"

"Is that Prince Imrahil?" Hammel asked then, standing on his tiptoes to see over the crowd.

Éomer's eyes focused on the person now riding in on horseback. "Yes, it is," he answered, a broad smile on his face. "Imrahil is a wonderful gentleman, and a fine dinner companion."

Gúthwyn watched the prince as he waved to the people, clearly pleased to return to Gondor. His hair was a light shade of brown, framing a pair of eyes grey as the sea along which he lived. He was robed in royal blue, with the emblem of a ship embroidered onto the front. When she squinted at it, she saw with a start that the ship was actually a swan, its proud neck elegantly raised and its wings neatly folded.

"His sons," Éomer murmured, and she drew her attention away from the prince to see three tall men riding behind him. They were all dark-haired and exceedingly handsome; Gúthwyn saw many a giggling woman and knew that she was not alone in her observations.

"What are their names?" she asked, standing on her tiptoes. The older two she could barely distinguish from one another, as they were wearing the same cloaks, but the youngest had removed his and was smiling rakishly at the maids.

"Elphir is the oldest," Éomer replied. "Then there is Erchirion, and the youngest is Amrothos. Yet I wonder…" He trailed off, and she looked at him questioningly.

"Lady Lothíriel!" someone cried then. A great uproar rose among the people as the last of the party rode in through the gates. There were two guards on either side of a woman, so strikingly gorgeous that many men were awed and sunk to their knees as she passed. Her hair was long and dark, nearly black in its shade; it tumbled freely down shoulders clad in a simple white dress that merely enhanced her beauty. She waved once or twice at her hailers, though was mostly gazing around at the White City, her blue-grey eyes coolly surveying her surroundings.

Gúthwyn turned to her brother to marvel at what must have been Imrahil's daughter, but her words died on her lips when she saw Éomer's face. He was staring at Lothíriel like a man entranced, struck utterly still by lightning or some other great force.

"Éomer!" she admonished him, slapping his arm to get his attention. He started, and when he saw her laughing a flush spread across his face. "Really, brother, it is not becoming of a king to stare at a woman so openly. Perhaps it is you we should be teaching manners to."

"If you were not crippled…" Éomer said, allowing her to imagine the rest of his threat. Indeed, his attention was soon distracted by Lothíriel once more. Gúthwyn sighed in impatience as his eyes followed the princess, only turning back to her when the delegation had passed.

"Éomer, please," she snorted. "You look like a fool. Besides, she is out of your reach."

"What do you mean by that?" Éomer demanded. "I am _your_ king, need I remind you."

"Aye," Gúthwyn conceded, giggling, "though I bet she has at least been taught not to stare at those who catch her fancy. Besides, she barely even returned the peoples' greetings. She must be haughty."

"And yet I would say you return the peoples' affections overmuch," Éomer retorted, his eyes narrowing at her. She blinked, not understanding what he was referring to.

"Whatever do you mean by that?" she asked at last, when he did not elucidate.

He gave her a long look. "I speak of your champion," he finally said. "It has not escaped my attention the favor you have been showing him, nor the fact that he can barely take his eyes off of you."

"Of course I am showing him favor!" Gúthwyn cried. "He is one of my best friends, and he has sworn his service to me! Brother, I do not doubt that you disliked him from the first day we met."

"Perhaps I had reason to," Éomer muttered, the spark in his eyes fading as he lowered Haiweth to the ground. "I was not pleased when he pulled you onto his lap at the party. Do you not know what that looks like?"

"He was _drunk,_" Gúthwyn said witheringly, slightly irritated that he was so determined to distrust her every male friend. "As was everyone—even you."

"What does drunk mean?" Haiweth asked, wrinkling her nose.

Gúthwyn smiled. "How about this, Haiweth: When the next party we attend finishes, I will bring you to my brother. Then you shall see for yourself what drunk means."

A very small, faint grin tugged at the corners of Hammel's lips.

"Now, Gúthwyn," Éomer said, pretending to be offended, "that is hardly the impression I want these children to be getting of me. And you know fully well that I can hold my ale better than many."

"Yes, but the Valar know how much practice you have had," she snickered, and earned a light blow to the head for her remark.

"All right, have it your way," Éomer grumbled. All around them, the crowd was dispersing. "Shall we go see if the men are still training?"

"Yes, let us," Gúthwyn agreed, and they set off down the street.


	5. The King and His Queen

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Five:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Five**

When Gúthwyn left the Houses of Healing a little past noon, having just woken up and dressed, the first two people she saw were Tun and Lebryn. They were chatting together outside, Tun watching the children out of the corner of his eye. Hammel and Haiweth were playing a game of tag, though Haiweth seemed to be enjoying it far more than her brother, who looked as if he were merely tolerating such antics.

"Good afternoon," Lebryn called out to her as she approached them. "Though I must admit I am surprised: What are you doing up so early?"

She made a face at him.

"Gúthwyn!" Haiweth abandoned the game and raced over to her, crashing into her legs and wrapping her arms tightly around them. Gúthwyn found herself wobbling dangerously, her crutches swaying.

Tun leaped forward to steady her. "I do not think you need any more injuries," he said as she gave her thanks.

"You are most certainly right," Gúthwyn grumbled, reaching down and ruffling the hair on Haiweth's head. "I am forever in debt to Cobryn for getting me these crutches, but I cannot wait for the day I can be rid of them!"

"Indeed, my lady," Tun replied, "you are beautiful as always, yet I think you look better without them."

She giggled, though without the derision that was now crossing Lebryn's face. "Sometimes I can hardly believe I deserve your kindness."

He smiled, and bowed. "I do my best."

"Please," Lebryn groaned. "Spare me."

"Go to a tavern," Gúthwyn suggested innocently. "Have you not been spending most of your time in one of them?"

She was rewarded with a filthy glare.

Hammel, who had been standing quietly behind Haiweth, said then, "It is Midsummer's Day today."

"Aye, it is," Gúthwyn confirmed happily. On Midsummer's Day the sun lingered the longest in the air, keeping the sky light well into the evening. It would be the first proper one she had experienced since before her capture, as in Isengard and Mordor one could barely see the heavens through all the ash and smoke. "What shall we do to celebrate it?"

Hammel shrugged. "I think the King has something in mind."

Gúthwyn raised her eyebrows. "Aragorn? Where did you learn of this?"

"Messengers came to the White Tower just before you woke up," Tun explained. "A fair host, it is said, is making its way towards Minas Tirith: Elves of the North."

"Elves?" she repeated, struggling against the urge to shudder. "Why?"

"I do not know," Tun admitted. "Though the Lord Aragorn was raised in Rivendell, was he not?"

At his words, understanding swept over her, so swift and complete that she was shocked she had not seen it sooner. When the Fellowship had departed from Rivendell, Aragorn was not only leaving behind the place where he had grown up—he was also leaving behind Lady Arwen, the Evenstar of her people, the Elf whom had captured the Ranger's heart. Gúthwyn had been immensely jealous of the love that the two of them shared, for her grief at Borogor's passing had been but a few months fresh.

"Gúthwyn?" Tun asked, placing a hand on her arm to get her attention.

She shook herself out of her musings. "My apologies," she said, smiling. There was no need to spoil Aragorn's surprise for them: They would find out soon enough. "Do you know when the Elves will arrive?" she instead inquired, shivering slightly at the thought of so many of them in Gondor.

"Today, I believe," Tun answered. "Would you like to go to the gates and wait for their arrival?"

Gúthwyn hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. She did not have any plans for the day. For the past week, she had been walking around the city with Hammel and Haiweth, putting as much use to her crutches as she possibly could. More children were returning, now that the shadow of the east had departed, and she had often watched them as their parents reestablished their households. Haiweth had made many new friends, though Hammel was far more reserved and did not form acquaintances as easily.

For the most part, her other companions had been Cobryn and Tun, though occasionally Lebryn came out of the taverns for a breath of fresh air and joined them. Éomer had been wrapped up in negotiations as usual, with the result that she had only seen him once the entire week. He had introduced her to Prince Imrahil, and she agreed whole-heartedly that he was a fine man. The prince had been one of the few people to not bat an eyelash at the sight of the children. She could not even begin to count how many times she had explained that they were not hers.

Imrahil's sons and daughter she had not yet met, though from what she had heard Éomer was spending a great deal of time with them. Gúthwyn wondered if he had spoken much with Lothíriel, recalling in amusement his thunderstruck expression when he had first seen her. Apparently Lothíriel was Faramir's cousin, for Imrahil was the brother of Lord Denethor's wife Finduilas.

Gúthwyn's eyes narrowed at the thought of Faramir. She had avoided him like the plague, and thus had seen neither him nor Éowyn for the entire time of her stay. It pained her to not speak with her sister more often, but she was not ready to confront the Steward again. The very idea made her tremble, at which point haunting memories of Borogor would assail her mercilessly. Faramir had not sought her out, thankfully—she was relieved that Cobryn had gotten the message across.

"Gúthwyn?"

"Tun, I am sorry," she said when she realized that her champion was trying to get her attention. "I keep getting—" She froze.

Legolas was walking towards them, his hand briefly raised in greeting. His face caught the light of the sun, and she flinched to see Haldor's eyes meet hers. Tun's hand, which was still on her arm, tensed a little.

"Hello, Legolas," Gúthwyn greeted him. He inclined his head.

"Your brother wishes for me to tell you that he would request your presence at the Tower of Ecthelion, so that you might greet the host with him. He says he will not hold you to it, but he has extended the invitation anyway."

Gúthwyn paused for a brief moment, debating with herself. She was delighted at the opportunity to spend some time with her brother, though on the other hand she did not wish to have to endure the company of Elves any longer than was necessary.

"If you wish to go to the Tower," Tun told her, "then I will go with you, for I am sure that some of the guards are already with Éomer."

"Then in that case," Lebryn said, "I will find Cobryn, for he is most likely already at the gates. Farewell." Before Gúthwyn even had time to apologize, he had left, striding towards the entrance to the fifth level. She now really had no choice but to accept Éomer's offer.

"Thank you," she said at last to Legolas, and hesitated before attempting to make conversation with him. "I hope you did not go out of your way to deliver this message."

"Actually, I was about to go to the Tower of Ecthelion when I saw you," Legolas replied, smiling. "Elves from Rivendell, Lothlórien, and even Mirkwood are arriving. Some of my kinsman will be there."

"So I have heard," she replied faintly.

It was then that she became aware of Haiweth's arms circling her waist, the child's face buried in her hip. "Haiweth, what is it?" she queried gently. The girl whimpered as she looked up at Gúthwyn, even more so when she glanced at Legolas. Her grip on Gúthwyn tightened.

Realization washed over Éomund's youngest daughter. Haiweth was seeing the same thing she did whenever she looked at the Elven prince: Haldor. Hammel, she saw, was silent, but staring fixedly at Legolas.

"Tun," Gúthwyn said, turning to him, "will you hold these for a moment?"

Her champion's eyes widened as she gave him the crutches. "Gúthwyn," he began worriedly, "I do not think—"

"It will just be for a moment," she reassured him, and bent down to pick up Haiweth. "Legolas," she said, approaching the Elf as she settled the girl on her hip, "have you met Haiweth yet?"

Legolas inclined his head. "Briefly," he replied. Haiweth stuck her thumb in her mouth.

"Haiweth, this is Legolas," Gúthwyn said, placing an emphasis on the Elf's name. "He is… He is a friend of mine."

She saw Legolas' eyes widen slightly, and he smiled softly before returning his attentions to Haiweth. The girl looked at him for a long time, and then buried her face in Gúthwyn's neck.

"I am sorry," Gúthwyn apologized, as some of the happiness in Legolas' eyes faded. "This has nothing to do with you; it is…" She did not need to continue for the Elf to understand.

"No, forgive me," Legolas told her, and she was surprised to see something similar to sadness crossing his face. "I should be going."

Gúthwyn hesitated for a moment, and then asked in attempt to make amends, "Will you not accompany us to the Tower?"

Hammel's head whirled around to look at her; Legolas' eyebrows rose, though he seemed faintly pleased. "Are you sure?" he questioned. "I would not want to be an imposition."

Firmly, Gúthwyn shoved all thoughts of Haldor into the corner of her mind. "You would not be," she told him, though her grip on Haiweth tightened slightly. "If we are all going up to the Tower, it makes sense to go together."

"Then I will not say no," Legolas replied, smiling. Gúthwyn nodded nervously, and set Haiweth down. The girl still clung to her legs, now and then glancing curiously at Legolas.

Tun gave her back her crutches, seeming none too happy at the idea of Legolas walking with them. She knew his unease was for her sake, and smiled at him to show that she would be all right.

"Let us go, then," she said, swallowing the discomfort welling up within her.

They began making their way up the street, Tun careful to keep himself in between her and Legolas. She could not help but feel relieved at this. Hammel, on the other hand, was walking alongside the Elf, not once taking his narrowed eyes from him. Yet they were not narrowed in anger, but in something else—studiousness, perhaps?

"Legolas, is your father going to be here?" she inquired as they passed into the seventh level. He shook his head.

"He is currently ordering the repair of his realm," Legolas explained. "Not long ago, my people suffered an invasion from the fortress of Dol Guldur, which lies in the southern region of Mirkwood, and though many of them fell they were not defeated. However, the shadow has not yet departed; it will be long before the forest is whole again."

"I am sorry to hear that," Gúthwyn answered, bowing her head. The news was not so terrible to her, as she was frightened of the Elves as well as the Enemy, yet she knew the pain Legolas must have gone through to hear that his people were dying. She would have felt horrible, had scores of the Eorlingas been slaughtered while she was too far away to do anything.

They came to the lawn before the White Tower, where but a single plant grew: A young tree, strong and hale, bearing countless blossoms like a myriad of large snowflakes. It had been planted, Cobryn once told her, not a month ago, when Aragorn and Gandalf had ascended Mount Mindolluin—in whose shadow Minas Tirith lay—and found the sapling in the stony ground.

She herself did not much understand the symbolism of the tree, though Cobryn did, and he had stared at it in reverence whenever they passed it. Now, she glanced at it as she went by with Legolas, Tun, and the children, though its significance still bewildered her. Perhaps Legolas knew, for he was gazing at it with a smile on his face. She recalled the promise that he had made with Gimli for the two of them to travel through the Fangorn Forest, and from there go to Helm's Deep to see the Glittering Caves of Aglarond.

They came before the doors leading into the Tower, and Gúthwyn paused for a moment to wipe a smudge of dirt from Hammel's face. He wrinkled his nose, but did not say anything. "Be courteous," she warned the two children. "This is a special day for King Elessar."

The two guards opened the doors to reveal a scene of chaotic preparations before them. A great table, one that could comfortably seat close to a hundred people, had been placed in the hall, set with linen napkins and silver goblets and plates. Servants were scurrying to and fro, calling out frantically to each other about what dishes were being prepared, whether this lady's dress was laundered, or how many guests that lord had brought with him.

Over all this presided King Elessar from his throne. Aragorn was watching the proceedings with an air of great excitement about him, talking now and then to some of his councilors. When he glanced up and saw her and her companions entering the White Tower, his face stretched into a wide grin, and he actually waved them over. Gúthwyn giggled, the noise lost in the surrounding bustle.

They went over to the king, doing the appropriate bows before he abandoned all sense of propriety and nearly leaped off of his throne. "My lord," Gúthwyn said, smiling as he approached them, "I have rarely seen you so happy."

"This day is one that I have waited long for," Aragorn replied, then turned to Legolas. "_Mellon nin,_" he said, and Gúthwyn assumed it was an affectionate Elvish term, "Will you be staying here for the rest of the evening? A feast has been planned, and we have arranged for musicians to play outside later."

"Of course I will remain," Legolas answered, inclining his head. "Though I know it is not the festivities that you look forward to."

Aragorn grinned, and turned to Gúthwyn. "Your brother will be coming down soon," he said. Éomer had been given a room in one of the upper levels of the Tower.

"Thank you," she responded. "Do you know if my sister and… and the Steward are here?"

"I believe they will be," Aragorn told her, and her eyes narrowed for the briefest second.

The rest of the afternoon they spent in the White Tower, eagerly—though not in Gúthwyn's case—awaiting the arrival of the Elven host. She introduced the children to Merry and Pippin, and was surprised to see that the former was wearing the livery of the Gondorian guards.

"I was sworn into the service of Lord Denethor, my lady," Pippin explained when she questioned him, bowing as he did so. With a wry smile, he gestured to his large black velvet tunic, inlaid with the seven stars and white tree of Gondor. "This was the smallest size they had."

Indeed, his clothing was too big for him; she could see evidence of hemming along the sleeves and the bottoms of his breeches. "Well," she replied, smiling, "at least black and silver are good colors on you."

Later, the delegation of Dol Amroth entered, Imrahil at their head. Gúthwyn could only vaguely recall his sons' names, but she remembered Lothíriel well. The prince's daughter glanced at her as she passed, and Gúthwyn gave a friendly smile, though it was not returned. She shrugged it off. Her dress was certainly not her best, and was akin to some of the maids running about—Lothíriel likely thought her one of the serving girls.

"My lady," Tun said then. Her champion had been at her side for the past few hours, and she was enjoying his company immensely. "Your brother is here." He pointed, and she gazed across the room to see Éomer speaking with… Éowyn and Faramir. Her body stiffened. She had not seen the Steward and her sister enter, though she had been engaged in lively conversation with Tun and the children for a long time.

Gúthwyn was spared from responding when someone shouted Tun's name. They turned around to see Gamling approaching them. "Excuse me, my lady," the captain of the guard said, inclining his head courteously. "I am afraid I must drag Tun away so that he might attend to his duties."

"Then it is I who am sorry, Gamling," Gúthwyn replied apologetically. "I did not mean to keep him busy."

"Farewell, my lady," Tun said, bowing, and then departed with Gamling.

"Who are they?" Haiweth wanted to know, frowning as she pointed at the entrance. Gúthwyn looked over and saw Gandalf the White with Frodo and Sam at his side. The Ringbearer appeared quite relaxed and healthy, laughing several times at what his companions were saying.

"Shall I introduce them to you?" Gúthwyn queried, smiling. Haiweth's response was to reach for her hand. When the girl realized that it was still holding on to a crutch, she grabbed Hammel's instead and started pulling him over to the wizard.

"Ah, Gúthwyn," Gandalf said as they approached. His eyes were twinkling. "I see you are in excellent health."

"Indeed I am, my lord," Gúthwyn replied, then turned to Frodo and Sam with as good of a curtsy as she could manage. "I feel as if I have not seen the two of you for a great while."

"We have been around, my lady," Sam answered. "This is a wondrously fair city."

"Aye," Frodo said quietly. "It is."

Haiweth tugged on Gúthwyn's dress impatiently, wanting to meet those whom she was conversing with. "Gandalf, Frodo, Sam," she said, nodding at each of them, "have you met Hammel and Haiweth? I have been taking care of them."

Frodo and Sam shook their heads, smiling at the children, though Gandalf said, "I have. And Hammel has been so kind as to spend some of his time with an old man."

Gúthwyn glanced at Hammel in surprise, unaware that he had been speaking with the wizard. "I did not know that," she admitted.

"This," Gandalf told her, placing a hand on Hammel's shoulder, "is a smart boy. Have you yet taken into consideration his education?"

Blushing, Gúthwyn was forced to shake her head. "I have not," she answered, "though I expect I will be able to arrange lessons in Rohan, for Haiweth as well as him."

Haiweth wrinkled her nose, not liking the idea. "Do not despair, Haiweth," Gúthwyn murmured, grinning. "They are not as tedious as you fear, though I must say that I was not the most adept pupil myself. My geography tutor, in particular, saw me as hopeless."

Gandalf chuckled, and was about to respond when a keen horn sounded from outside the Tower. The doors burst open, and a messenger came into the now silent room. "The Elven host has entered the city," he declared, bowing.

A murmur of excitement rose in the room as King Elessar made his way to the doors, followed by Faramir, King Éomer, and Prince Imrahil. The noblemen of Minas Tirith, Rohan, and Dol Amroth went after them; Gúthwyn nodded at Gandalf, Frodo, and Sam before hastening to join her people. Hammel and Haiweth remained close to her side, unlike her anxious to see the Elves.

They filed outside onto the greensward. The sun was beginning to set, its fire dipping into the horizon. Above them was the evening sky, lit with innumerable stars that put diamonds to shame in their radiance. Gúthwyn took a deep breath, inhaling the cool air scented with the blossoms of the young tree, and stood beside Éowyn on the steps leading into the Tower. Feeling as content as she could be with the imminent arrival of the Elves, she took a brief moment to survey her surroundings.

The guards and knights of Rohan and Gondor were lined all about the court, waiting solemnly for the approaching host. King Elessar, King Éomer, Faramir the Steward, Prince Imrahil, Gandalf the White, and Frodo Baggins with Samwise Gamgee at his side were arrayed before the tree, their splendor magnificent and their bearing proud. Next to Gúthwyn on the steps were the rest of the lords and ladies from Gondor, far outnumbering those from Rohan. Hammel and Haiweth were the only children there.

"Can you see them?" she asked Éowyn, trying to peer into the gate that was opened to the sixth level.

"No, not yet," Éowyn replied, her eyes sparkling with happiness. She was wearing a gown that Gúthwyn had never seen before: It was a gorgeous shade of yellow, painstakingly embroidered with flowers and adorned with tiny beads at the neck and waistline. A golden circlet was upon her head.

"Where did you get that dress?" Gúthwyn inquired curiously, wondering if she had had it made for the occasion.

Éowyn beamed as she opened her mouth, and with a sinking feeling Gúthwyn thought she knew what the answer would be. "It was a gift from Faramir," her sister answered, a blush coloring her cheeks. "I wore it to Lord Aragorn's coronation, though I loved it so much that I am using it today."

"Lord Faramir is generous," Gúthwyn said, managing to speak without a trace of bitterness in her voice.

"Indeed," Éowyn responded, a broad grin on her face. "You must sit next to him at the banquet tonight. I fear you have hardly gotten a chance to speak with him, and he is a wonderfully kind person."

Gúthwyn hastened to dissuade her from the idea. "No, sister, really, I think it would be better if you sat next to him. After all, you are—"

At that moment, silence fell over the courtyard. Gúthwyn's words caught in her throat as two Elves rode through the entrance, identical in every which way. They carried banners of Rivendell, and their steeds were grey. It came to Gúthwyn that she had seen them before at the Council in the Last Homely House. Their names were Elladan and Elrohir, and they were the twin sons of Lord Elrond.

After them came a golden-haired Elf that she thought looked familiar, but could not identify, and another that she recognized as one of Elrond's advisors. Behind these two rode what must have been the entire household of Rivendell, at least thirty Elves all fairer than the one before them. Such beauty had rarely been seen in Gondor, but it was soon to be outdistanced by those who came next.

The Lady Galadriel entered the courtyard, her golden hair catching the last few rays of the sun and shining brilliantly against her white gown. The mare she rode upon was white as well; next to her was the Lord Celeborn, tall and regal as his blue eyes gazed all around him. Many Elves from Lothlórien followed in their wake, garbed in cloaks of grey with white jewels set in their hair.

Even though these people terrified her, Gúthwyn could not help but be awed by the sight. Yet more came. Elves in brown cloaks—probably from Mirkwood, she thought, as she glanced over at Legolas and saw a smile spread across his face—rode in next, few in number and seeming more alert and ready for battle than a celebration. She remembered Legolas telling her that they had recently won a costly fight against the darkness that was Dol Guldur.

Finally, last but not least, came Lord Elrond, and beside him was Arwen Undómiel, her beauty unparalleled in that night. She wore a light green gown, the fabric shimmering and flowing. Upon her dark hair was a crown draped in gleaming gems that were akin to the stars above. Her people said she was a likeness of Lúthien Tinúviel, the Elf maiden who wed the mortal Beren; in that moment, Gúthwyn truly realized what that meant, for even the flames of jealousy rising within her could not hold a candle to those of her amazement.

The Elves parted, allowing Lord Elrond and Arwen to make their way to the front of the group. They dismounted, and King Elessar stepped forward. "Welcome," he said, his voice clear and ringing throughout the courtyard. A great joy was in it. "I bring the Lord Elrond and Lady Arwen the goodwill of Gondor, and the greetings of the people."

"I bring King Elessar what he has been promised," Elrond replied, and held out a silver rod, the scepter of the kings.

Aragorn accepted it, and then Arwen came to him and set her hand in his. Gandalf now stood slightly before them. To the hundreds of Gondorian civilians, who had gathered in the courtyard after the Elves' arrival, he declared, "Your Queen, good people: Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of the Elves!"

A storm of wild cheering broke out as Aragorn drew closer to Arwen and placed a soft kiss on her lips. Gúthwyn could not help but smile to see the Man's happiness, and clapped along with Éowyn. When Aragorn and Arwen parted, the call went up: "All hail King Elessar and Queen Arwen!"

Like a rippling wave the people sank to their knees, and in that hour the sun set behind the mountains, yet the night was glorious and none feared it. Gondor had found its Queen.


	6. As Friends

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Six:  
**I realize that, given the context of _The Return of the King_, it is almost entirely likely that Éomer was in Rohan during Aragorn's marriage to Arwen, for he remarks in the chapter where he returns to Gondor that "now I have seen Galadriel with my eyes…" However, for the purpose of this story, I have taken it to mean that he simply did not notice the Lady at first, being rather preoccupied with Lothíriel. wink A feeble excuse, no doubt, but a necessary one.The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Six**

After the wedding of King Elessar to the Lady Arwen, there was a great feast inside the White Tower. Aragorn and Arwen sat next to each other at the head of the table, though Elves and Men mingled together on both sides in a friendship that had rarely been seen in this Age.

Gúthwyn made her way to where Éowyn and Éomer were sitting, and saw to her discomfort that Faramir was beside them. She prayed that Éowyn had forgotten her earlier words, but as her sister turned to her all such luck abandoned her.

"Gúthwyn!" Éowyn cried, getting out of her chair and motioning for Gúthwyn to sit. "Please, sit next to Faramir, so that the two of you might get to know each other."

She had no choice but to obey Éowyn's wishes. As her sister settled herself in the adjacent seat, Borogor's killer got to his feet and bowed politely before holding the chair out for Gúthwyn. She held her breath as she lowered herself onto it. "Thank you," she muttered.

Faramir opened his mouth, looking mildly horrified to be sitting next to the woman for whom he had caused so much grief, but at that moment King Elessar stood, and the entire table was quelled.

"My friends," Aragorn said, gazing all around him with a broad smile on his face. "Tonight, enjoy yourselves, and cast away all shadows in your minds! For after we feast, I am inviting you all to go outside and dance, as the finest musicians and minstrels around have kindly agreed to play for us!"

Clapping broke out amongst the table as the King sat back down, and with that the dinner commenced. Servants brought out steaming dishes of every kind of food imaginable, from deer and boar to vegetable stew. Gúthwyn's stomach turned over at the sight of the meat, and only took a small piece of bread from the basket in front of her.

Faramir was silent as he helped himself to some porridge, and Gúthwyn found herself regretting her seating decision. She could have gone to sit with Tun and the other guards, and though those who did not know her would likely frown upon the action, she would at least be far away from the Steward. Hammel and Haiweth were not with her, either, as they were outside in the large pavilion that had been erected for the commoners and children. Cobryn, she knew, would watch over them well, but she still missed their company.

"Gúthwyn," Faramir said at last, and she glanced at him, "Éowyn tells me that you are remarkably proficient with a blade."

"She exaggerates," Gúthwyn replied automatically. "It has been long since I trained, and she has not seen me wield a sword."

"Yet you slew four Wargs during the ambush on the way to Helm's Deep, and that is no small feat," Éowyn said.

Gúthwyn tore off a piece of bread and fiddled around with it for awhile, not responding to Éowyn's comment. She had been mostly eating the stuff since her supply of meat from Mordor had run out—beyond the occasional fruit or vegetable, everything else made her feel queasy. At length she put the piece in her mouth, chewing it slowly so as to prolong the time she would not have to speak with Faramir.

"How are your injuries?" the Steward asked at length.

"I am fine, thank you," she said, tearing off another piece of bread. She did not eat it; instead she began surreptitiously shredding it, wishing she were anywhere but sitting next to Faramir.

"I trust you are not too bored in your confinement to the Houses of Healing?"

Why did he insist on dragging their conversation out? "I am not confined," Gúthwyn informed him, though she was starting to feel trapped in the throne room. "I have been walking around the city with some friends."

"And what do you think of Minas Tirith?" Faramir wanted to know.

Gúthwyn's hands were beginning to tremble. Placing them on her lap, she took a deep breath to calm herself. "It is a large city," she said carefully. "And it is certainly bigger than Edoras. Yet I prefer the open fields to the stone walls of your people."

In retrospect, her comment was rather rude, but she did not apologize. Faramir did not look as if he knew what to say; hastily, she glanced around the table to see whom else she could talk to. Unfortunately, she soon realized, she had chosen just about the worst spot to sit in. In addition to Faramir beside her, the delegation of Mirkwood was across the table, with none other than Legolas sitting diagonal from her.

She felt her heart skip several beats. _Stop panicking,_ she told herself sternly, trying to quell her shaking hands. _You are being weak and pathetic._

"Gúthwyn, are you feeling well?"

Startled, she jumped a few inches and turned to see Éowyn and Éomer looking at her concernedly. It was her sister who had spoken.

"I-I am sorry," Gúthwyn said, wincing as Legolas glanced over at them. "I was just lost in my thoughts."

"You seem pale," Éowyn commented worriedly. "And you are not eating anything…"

"Éowyn, really, it is nothing," Gúthwyn insisted, and quickly ripped off a chunk of the bread and ate it. "I am a little tired, that is all."

"And how can that be, sister?" Éomer inquired. "I hear from Cobryn that you waking up before noon is a rare occasion."

Gúthwyn chuckled a bit. "I have always been a late sleeper," she replied. "You know that."

"Aye; no fitful rest is it either," Éomer responded, a grin on his face. "Sometimes, I think you could sleep through an entire battle!"

The smile slid off her face, and she looked down at her plate. Borogor had said that so often to her… In Mordor, she had seen the humor in it, but had never found it funny; nothing was amusing in the Black Land. She had always responded with a grimace, usually saying that she wished she could sleep through training practice. At such remarks he had laughed—what she would not give to have him beside her now.

Dinner seemed to drag on forever. Gúthwyn managed to finish the rest of her bread, though afterwards she felt sick to her stomach and was not able to swallow anything else. Once or twice, Legolas spoke to her; he introduced her to two of his good friends, but she did not remember their names. She found she was able to speak with him relatively easily, if only in comparison to Faramir. The Steward attempted to engage her in conversation several times, but her answers were brief, and she made it clear with each abrupt reply that she had no interest in talking with him. At least, not with Éowyn able to hear them.

As dessert was being served, a sign of the long overdue end to the meal, Gúthwyn glanced over at Éowyn. Her sister was chatting animatedly with Éomer and Erkenbrand. Turning back to Faramir, she said quietly, "We do seem to run into each other often, do we not?"

She was unable to conceal the bitterness in her tone. Faramir's eyes widened slightly.

"Indeed," he at last managed, and his voice lowered so that she could barely hear it. "Gúthwyn, I had no idea you were her sister. I never expected to see you again."

"I never wanted to see you again," she whispered, crumpling her napkin beneath her clenched fist.

"I…" Faramir trailed off. "I buried him," he at last said.

His words, so bluntly mentioning Borogor when so far they had avoided any mention of him, slammed into her like a hammer upon the nail. Her breath froze in her chest, and she had to blink rapidly to keep the tears from forming in her eyes: She refused to lower herself more than she already had in front of this man, to whom she had already crawled towards and begged.

"Gúthwyn?"

She looked at Faramir, and found she could not stand the sorrow in his eyes. It made her want to take his throat in her hands and squeeze it until there was no life left, until he was dead as Borogor was. "What?"

"I am sor—"

"No!" she hissed, holding up a hand to stop him. One of Legolas' friends looked at her curiously, and when she next spoke she could barely hear her own words. "Do not talk about him now. Not here. I cannot…" Her voice weakened, and then died. Just referring to Borogor was painful. She could have kissed him, she could have married him, she could have _loved_ him… and yet she could not. And the reason why was sitting right next to her.

Mercifully, King Elessar stood up then, holding his arms up. "Let us retire outside!" he declared.

The suggestion was taken up at once. Within seconds the air was filled with the sound of chairs being pushed back and the groans of well-fed nobles as they got to their feet. Gúthwyn had to wait until Éomer could retrieve her crutches before she could leave her chair; when she at last got up, she thanked him and sighed softly.

"Is something wrong?" Éomer asked gently. Gúthwyn blinked: She had not realized that the noise was so loud.

"I might return to the Houses," she admitted, lowering her eyes to the floor as they made their way to the doors.

"Why?" Éomer's voice was laced with unconcealed surprise.

"I am tired," Gúthwyn explained. This was true, but she also did not feel like being forced to see her sister dancing with Borogor's killer; nor did she wish to speak much with anyone, for a melancholy mood had fallen over her.

"At least stay for an hour," Éomer urged her. "You will have fun, I promise, and neither will you lack for company."

Which was precisely what she did not want. Shaking her head, she replied, "I will not be able to dance at all," she reminded him, gesturing towards her foot and ribs. "It is foolish."

"That does not mean you cannot go," Éomer told her firmly. "Come, sister. It would do you good. Éowyn is right; you are pale and drawn."

"Fine," she said at length, giving into his persistency. "As you wish."

They passed through the doors then, and immediately Éomer was hailed by two of Imrahil's sons. He would have led her over to them, but she managed to deter him from the idea. "Go on," she encouraged him. "Do not worry for me. I will find a bench to sit on."

"Are you sure?" he inquired, seeming loth to leave her alone.

"Yes," Gúthwyn insisted, and gave him a light shove in the direction of the brothers. As he started walking towards them, she sighed once more, and looked all about the pavilion. It had been cleared of tables and was now a large space for dancing. There were numerous benches around the area. Several men were already playing their instruments, the songs extremely pleasant to hear. Gúthwyn listened with half an ear as she navigated her way to one of the benches, careful to avoid those who were heading towards the music. Laughter was in the air.

Feeling out of place, she leaned her crutches against the bench and sat down, surveying the scene before her. The musicians were growing livelier, and a few minstrels had joined them. Children were dancing amongst adults, carefree and delighted to be up so late. Many of the girls had garlands in their hair—Haiweth was one of them. A smile came to Gúthwyn's face in spite of her mood as she watched the child giggle unrestrainedly, twirling around and admiring how her dress spun out as she went.

Hammel she saw not too far off, talking quietly with Cobryn. Not for the first time, she noted the similarities between them. They were reserved in judgment, though far more intelligent than one would think them to be. Cobryn spoke to Hammel as if he was an equal, something she did not doubt the boy had picked up on immediately. _Perhaps I should ask Cobryn if he would be willing to tutor Hammel,_ she mused, thinking of Gandalf's earlier words.

The wizard, she saw, was far from the dancing; he sat beside the tree in the company of Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel, and Lord Celeborn. To her slight surprise, she noticed that Frodo was seated alongside them, talking easily to the noble Elves. Sam was next to him, looking as if he were too awed to take in a word that his master and companions were saying.

"My lady, how are you?"

Gúthwyn glanced up to see Tun approaching her, a grin on his face. She could not help but smile back. "I am well, thank you," she replied, making room for him. He sat down, putting one arm comfortably on the bench behind her. "What of yourself?"

"I feel splendid," Tun answered; "yet I admit myself surprised to see you all alone. Have you been lacking for company?"

"No," she hastened to reassure him. "My brother just left me a few minutes ago to speak with Prince Imrahil's sons."

For almost an hour—the time of which went by so fast that she felt as if she had blinked and missed it—they talked, Tun entertaining her with several jokes and equally laughable stories. Gúthwyn found her spirits lifting with each passing minute, and could scarcely believe that she had contemplated returning to the Houses of Healing.

"Tun!"

The call interrupted a discussion they had been having about their childhood days. Looking up, they saw Erkenbrand striding over to them. "My lady," he said, bowing, and then turned to Tun. "On Béma's word, nephew, has poor Gúthwyn spoken to anyone else all evening?"

"I do not mind," Gúthwyn said quickly, smiling at Tun. "Really, he is—"

"Wearing out his welcome, I will wager," Erkenbrand finished, though his eyes were sparkling with amusement. "Tun, will you not give your uncle the honor of your presence, even for a brief time? I see you have not even tried some of the ale—a grief we must amend."

"I shall not deny your request," Tun said, and stood up, bowing deeply to Gúthwyn. "Farewell, my lady."

"Farewell," she replied, and watched as he and Erkenbrand departed. Their figures soon melted into the crowd. She sighed a little, and settled back against the bench to watch the dancers.

They were mainly humans, though a few Elves had taken a liking to the music. Aragorn and Arwen were waltzing together, both practically glowing with happiness. She observed them for a time, glad for the King's joy. Yet that did not stop her from envying Arwen, try though she might to suppress such feelings.

Sighing once more, she glanced away from the couple, and her eyes fell upon an even more disheartening sight: Éowyn leading Faramir towards the musicians. She was laughing at something he had said, and as she looked at them her sister placed a kiss on his cheek. He responded with an even softer one on her lips; brief in duration, but tender and caring. Éowyn's cheeks turned a faint shade of pink. Gúthwyn winced, suddenly overwhelmed with a rush of memories about Borogor, his body as it sank to the foliage and how lifeless his lips were beneath hers.

She spent the next hour trying to avoid watching her sister and the Steward, choosing to focus her attention on her brother. To her slight surprise, he was speaking with Lothíriel most of the night, clearly enjoying the princess' company. Every now and then, a hearty laugh would escape him. Imrahil's daughter was more reserved, but there was a smile on her face, melting the aloof exterior Gúthwyn had always noticed about her. The two of them danced a few times, and she noted with raised eyebrows that her brother was not as clumsy as she had assumed he would be. Lothíriel was nimble of feet, her grace second only to that of Lady Arwen herself.

Cobryn and Hammel came over to speak with her once; at this point, all the sky was dark, and the pavilion was lit by several torches.

"Have you been sitting here all evening?" Cobryn asked as they drew nearer. She nodded, not in the best mood: Over their shoulders, she had seen Faramir twirl Éowyn under his arm, his hand as delicate as if he were holding silk.

Hammel sat down beside her and she put an arm around him, absent-mindedly running her fingers through his hair. Cobryn remained standing. "Perhaps you should ask Tun for a dance," he suggested, smirking. "He would be more than happy to oblige."

"Oh, stop it," she retorted, though her heart was not in the jest. "Besides, look at this thing." Lightly she kicked her ankle in his direction, wincing as a sharp pain shot through her leg. "To say nothing of my ribs."

"True," he conceded; then he grinned, and added, "Though Tun will not mind if you have to lean on him for support."

"Cobryn!" she cried, more annoyed than amused. "Please, leave the poor man alone!"

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, studying her closely.

"I am fine," she answered automatically. Her eyes narrowed as Éowyn's arms wrapped around Faramir's waist, bringing the Steward close to whisper something in his ear.

Cobryn saw her gaze shift, and turned around to see her sister. When he glanced back at her, he nodded in understanding. "I see," he said softly, looking apologetic.

Hammel slid off of the bench then. "There is Gandalf," he spoke, pointing, and glanced at Cobryn. "Will you go with me?"

"Do you mind?" Cobryn asked her. Quickly, Gúthwyn shook her head.

"Go on," she bade them, and watched as they made their way towards the White Wizard. _Maybe I should return to the Houses,_ she found herself thinking. Éowyn and Faramir were in their own world, which conveniently happened to be almost directly in front of her. They did not even notice her as they danced together. She could not long bear to look at them, but her eyes were repeatedly drawn back to the glow in her sister's face, the delight in Faramir's eyes, the way the two of them moved so comfortably that it was as if they were already married.

Gúthwyn sighed heavily, feeling a lump beginning to form in her throat. She would have given anything for her sister to be happy—and yet _why_ did she have to choose the one man whom Gúthwyn would have slaughtered, given half the chance? The one man who had destroyed a piece of her, the one man whom she had humiliated herself before and pleaded with?

"Gúthwyn?" A sleepy voice met her ears. Haiweth was standing before her, a thumb in her mouth. "Tired," she muttered.

Opening her arms, Gúthwyn let Haiweth crawl into her lap and settle down there. The girl rested her head on the young woman's chest, yawning as she did so.

"Have you had fun tonight?" Gúthwyn asked, kissing the top of the child's head. Haiweth nodded.

"Did you see me?" she wanted to know, craning her neck to look up at Gúthwyn. Her thumb was still in her mouth. "Did you see my dress?"

Gúthwyn smiled. Ever since Haiweth had discovered dresses, she had wanted to wear nothing else. "I did, little one," she murmured. "But I think you were more pretty than the gown."

Haiweth giggled, then yawned again.

"Do you want to go back?" Gúthwyn inquired, knowing that she herself would not mind the rest.

But Haiweth adamantly shook her head. "Stay," she commanded.

They remained there for near half an hour. Gúthwyn was growing drowsier as time went on, content to have Haiweth in her lap and listen to the music. The slower songs were now being played, merely adding to her weariness. Haiweth was soon fast asleep, her chest rising and falling rhythmically and her thumb firmly between her teeth. Gúthwyn debated whether or not to take it out, knowing that such a habit was not good for children, but in the end let it stay: She did not want to disturb the girl's rest.

It was about one or two hours from midnight when she caught sight of her brother making his way towards her. To her surprise, Lothíriel was with him.

"Gúthwyn!" Éomer exclaimed when they stood before her. A broad grin was on his face, and she could not restrain the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "How have you been tonight, sister?"

"Well enough," Gúthwyn answered, and struggled to her feet, shifting Haiweth over to her left hip. Her ankle protested valiantly, but in the end her determination won out. "And you?"

Éomer beamed, and then gestured to Lothíriel. "Have you yet been introduced to Prince Imrahil's daughter, the lady Lothíriel?"

"No, I have not," Gúthwyn replied, smiling at the woman as she gave the best curtsy she could manage with a child in her arms and a broken ankle. Lothíriel returned the greeting, though her eyes were rather cold, and they lingered briefly on Gúthwyn's dress—which admittedly was a dull grey, and certainly not chosen with much care—and then on Haiweth.

"The pleasure is mine," the princess spoke softly, almost as an afterthought.

Gúthwyn nodded, and then said, "This is Haiweth, though I fear she is asleep at the moment."

"She is adorable," Lothíriel responded, yet there was something about the answer that did not strike Gúthwyn as genuine. Pale grey eyes darted from the child to her, though the princess did not say anything.

_Perhaps she is nervous,_ Gúthwyn thought. However, from what she had seen of Lothíriel, she doubted that was the case.

Determined to keep the conversation flowing, at the very least for her brother's sake, she commented, "I saw the two of you waltzing together. Lothíriel, you are a wonderful dancer. Éomer, I am surprised you managed to stay on your feet."

Éomer chuckled. "Now, sister," he said, "you do not give me enough credit. I seem to recall Tun having to teach you to dance not too long ago." Such was his mood that his eyes did not even narrow at the prospect of her being whirled around by her champion.

"You do not know how to dance?" Lothíriel inquired, laughing slightly. The action was not outwardly derisive, yet Gúthwyn could not shake the impression that the princess did not think highly of her. "Éomer, you should be ashamed! The Lady Éowyn is marvelous on her feet—have you been so intent on instructing one of your sisters that you neglected the education of the other?"

"Nay, Lothíriel," Éomer replied amusedly, "I was not responsible for their tutoring, something I must confess myself glad about."

The shot was deliberate. "Dear brother," Gúthwyn began carefully, "do watch your words. I might very well take offense to them and be forced to humiliate you on the training grounds in front of your men."

Éomer snorted, though Lothíriel's eyes narrowed very slightly. "My sister, from what I understand, is extraordinarily talented with a blade," the king of Rohan explained, seeing the princess' confusion.

"From what you understand?" Lothíriel asked, glancing at Gúthwyn. "Did you not see her lessons for yourself?"

There was an awkward pause. Éomer shifted on his feet, looking at Gúthwyn; she shook her head, the motion almost imperceptible. "There was much war in Rohan for many years," Éomer at last said. "I was not at home as often as I would have liked to have been, and when I returned it was usually only for a night or two."

"I see," Lothíriel said, her eyes now fixed on Gúthwyn. "You learned how to wield a sword, yet not a needle or a partner?"

Something in the princess' tone was off. It was subtle, but for a moment the comment confused Gúthwyn, as it seemed there were two different intents behind the speech. "I am afraid my needlework is woefully inadequate," she at last answered, "and those who dance with me would do well to wear ironclad boots. I am much more at home on a battlefield than a ballroom."

"Admirable sentiments," Lothíriel said quietly, something flickering in her eyes, "though I must say that I did not expect them from a woman."

"Did you not tell me that your father gave you a few lessons in sword fighting?" Éomer asked, tilting his head in query.

Lothíriel smiled very faintly. "He did," she said, "and there were those who deemed me proficient in my own right. But my interests lie in politics and, of course, the skills that one must have to be considered an accomplished lady." She cast another cold glance over at Gúthwyn, one that Éomer did not notice.

"You seem accomplished to me," her brother instead commented, smiling at Lothíriel. She looked demurely down at her hands, the tiniest blush creeping over her cheeks.

"I see my father," she then said, nodding her head in the direction. "Shall we go speak with him?"

"I would love to," Éomer answered, and then turned to Gúthwyn. "Sister, pray do not stay here all night," he told her, looking concerned.

"I will do my best," Gúthwyn responded, repressing the urge to remind him that she had a sleeping child in her arms and could not very well move.

"Gúthwyn, it was wonderful meeting you," Lothíriel said warmly, and as Gúthwyn looked at her she thought she must have imagined the princess' condescending manner, for the eyes that now sparkled happily at her were devoid of any coldness. "I look forward to seeing you sometime soon," Lothíriel continued, smiling. "Éomer has told me so much about you and Éowyn that it would be a shame not to."

"Good things, I hope?" Gúthwyn inquired, and Lothíriel hastened to reassure her.

"Of course," she said quickly. "Éomer must be a wonderful brother, to speak so kindly about his siblings."

"Aye," Gúthwyn replied, looking at Éomer contentedly. "He is adequate."

"_Adequate?_" Éomer repeated incredulously, though a grin was on his face. "You wound me, sister."

"Perhaps the Prince Imrahil can heal you with kinder words," Gúthwyn said, smirking. "You will get few from me, dear brother."

Éomer rolled his eyes, and they both laughed. "I shall return, Gúthwyn," he told her.

"Do not restrict yourself so," Gúthwyn chided him. "Farewell!"

Éomer and Lothíriel departed, and Gúthwyn sank back down onto the bench in relief: Her arms were now tired from holding Haiweth up, and her ankle was paining her. Now she wondered as to the nature of her brother's acquaintance with the princess—was Éomer attracted to her, or merely seeking companionship? She remembered the blush that had spread over Lothíriel's face when he had complimented her; was that more than a sign of modesty?

"Many things to think about," Gúthwyn murmured tiredly to Haiweth, though the child could not hear her.

When she next glanced up, her eyes widened: Legolas was making his way towards her. "Gúthwyn," he said, a reserved smile on his face as he nodded at her. "How have you been?"

"Good, thank you," she replied somewhat nervously, her hold on Haiweth tightening the slightest bit.

_Stop being so weak,_ she chastised herself angrily. "W-Would you like to sit down?" she asked hesitantly.

He looked surprised. "Do you mind?"

When she shook her head, he sat down on the bench, keeping a respectful distance away. His eyes held hers for a moment, as if still asking permission, and then shifted to Haiweth. "Is she all right?" he queried in concern.

Gúthwyn nodded, stroking the girl's hair. "She is just tired. It has been an exciting day for her."

Legolas smiled a little, and then frowned. "I am sorry for frightening her earlier," he said, looking down at his hands. "I had no intention of doing so."

"I know," Gúthwyn replied softly. "Yet I think I am the one who owes you an apology, and though I have given you one it does not seem enough."

He glanced back up, and his blue eyes met hers. "The only thing I would ask of you is that we might be friends someday; and I will not, for it seems to me that such a gift would cost you more than it should."

She flushed. "Are we not already friends?" she asked, thinking back to their meeting outside the Houses of Healing.

His eyes widened. "I thought you spoke only to calm Haiweth."

"Nay," she replied, tentatively smiling. "If you will not accept an apology, then I will readily give you my friendship. It is the least I can do." She prayed it would not be a difficult vow to keep. Was it not time that she began to put the past behind her, if indeed such a thing was possible?

Legolas opened his mouth, and then closed it. He shook his head. "Gúthwyn, I would not have you do this for my sake."

"But it is not just for your sake," she told him, swallowing hard at what she was about to say. "Legolas, Haldor… Haldor is dead, but not gone. I need to forget him. I want to forget him. And so do the children."

He did not mock her, as she had half feared he would, nor try to change the subject, as she had half expected him to. "Will my presence make it harder?" he instead questioned seriously.

"I do not know," Gúthwyn admitted. "I think that… in the long run, it will help. I-I know I want to put Haldor—Mordor—behind me, but it might take years. Or maybe… or maybe he will never be gone. And until he is, until what happened in Mordor fades, th-there will be the nightmares, and the m-memories, and—"

She broke off, horrified at how she had allowed herself to spill out such thoughts in front of Legolas. Her cheeks burned, and she dropped her gaze to the bench, unable to believe she had been so foolish.

"Gúthwyn, you should not be ashamed," Legolas said quietly, drawing nearer to her. With a gentle hand he reached out to lift her chin so that she was looking into his eyes. Her own were on the verge of becoming tear-filled. "Do not think yourself weak."

"I-I am sorry," she muttered, trying desperately not to cringe. She was weak—weaker than he imagined, weaker than anyone alive except for Éowyn and Éomer knew.

Legolas lowered his hand. "Do not be," he told her firmly. "If there is anything I can do to help, just say the word."

"Th-Thank you," she whispered. Around them, the musicians ended their song to a round of wild applause. Requests were made for favorites, which the minstrels were only too happy to oblige.

It was then that Hammel reappeared, coming from seemingly out of nowhere to stand before her and Legolas. His eyes flicked back and forth between them—but once, only once. "I can watch Haiweth now," he said.

"Hammel, you need not trouble. I am fine," Gúthwyn said, reaching out and straightening the collar of his tunic.

The boy grimaced. "You have been sitting down all night," he commented. "Haiweth should not keep you here."

"She cannot help it," Gúthwyn replied, smiling softly as she looked at the girl. "She is tired."

"Gúthwyn," Legolas said then, his voice cautious. She glanced at him curiously. "Would you like to dance?"

Her eyes widened, as did Hammel's, and she instinctively shivered at the idea. For a long time, she did not say anything.

"It will do you good," he explained, standing up and extending a courteous hand to her. "Hammel is right: You have been sitting here all night."

Still she hesitated, recognizing that there was no hidden intent in his actions, but afraid to accept his kind offer. "I-I cannot even walk," she said, her words trembling. "I would not be a good partner…"

Legolas knew that her injuries were the least of her concerns. "As friends," he said calmly, giving her a reassuring smile. "And you need not worry about discomfort."

She looked at his hand uncertainly, and then up at him. The expression on his face had not changed. "A-All right," she agreed shakily, shifting Haiweth onto the bench. "Hammel, will you watch her for a moment?"

Hammel nodded silently, his eyes darting to Legolas and then back to her.

There was nothing left to do now but take the Elf's hand. Swallowing her nervousness, she placed her own in his, allowing him to lift her to her feet.

"I-I do not know how to waltz," Gúthwyn admitted as they drew nearer to the musicians, glancing around at the others and seeing what they were doing.

Legolas smiled. "That is fine," he replied. "You do not have to. I would not want to risk further injury."

They came to a stop amidst a crowd of people, Gúthwyn's ankle already beginning to ache. She pointed this out to Legolas, and he nodded. Taking her hands, he extended one of them out to her right and held the other close to his chest. "I promise you, we will not move much," he said.

"Th-Thank you," she answered in relief, and took several deep breaths to calm herself. In an effort to keep her mind off of his hands, and how their bodies were only a little more than a foot away from each other, she asked, "What are you planning to do after you leave Gondor?"

He was now moving her around in a small circle, one that did not put much strain on either her ankle or her ribs. "I have promised Gimli that, after he comes with me to Fangorn Forest, I will go to Helm's Deep and see those caves of his."

Gúthwyn smiled in spite of herself. "Where is he?" she questioned, glancing around at the people. "I have not seen him the entire night."

"I believe he has been with the Hobbits," Legolas informed her.

She nodded, and then asked, "What about afterwards? Will you return to Mirkwood?"

"I shall," he said; "though perhaps not for long."

"What do you mean?"

"The idea has come into my mind about starting a settlement of Elves in the northern reaches of Ithilien," Legolas said. Her eyes widened. "With King Elessar's permission, we might make the forest a wholesome place again. Too often has it born the burden of needless slaughter and destruction."

"That it has," Gúthwyn murmured, more to herself than to him. Her hands in his suddenly seemed trapped.

"And what of you?" Legolas inquired. "Will you go back to Edoras soon?"

Gúthwyn nodded, her spirits lifting at the prospect. "I am eager to see Meduseld once more," she said, closing her eyes briefly and picturing its thatched roof glowing gold in the afternoon sun. "The White City is majestic, but I am not used to being hemmed in by stone walls."

"I know the feeling," Legolas admitted. "Though it is rare that I am at ease in a realm of Men."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what of my home?" she queried, daring to hold his gaze for a second. "Do you find it constraining as well?"

He shook his head. "Not so much as Minas Tirith, though I have understandably never spoken of such feelings to Aragorn. Your people are more… open, I deem, in their happiness as well as their anger. But my heart belongs to the forest, and of late the Sea."

"Have you been there?" she wanted to know, hardly able to imagine what such a vast expanse of water would look like.

"I have not seen it," Legolas answered; "yet I have heard the call of the gulls, and now I shall ever long to sail upon the waters."

"I am afraid I do not understand such a desire," Gúthwyn replied. "My heart is bound to my land, to the open fields upon which a horse may run as freely as he chooses."

Legolas looked at her for a moment. "You love your people, do you not?" he asked.

She smiled. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I do."

* * *

Erkenbrand brought the mug to his mouth and took a long drought, finishing half of it in one gulp. He knew better than to get drunk tonight, and he would not, but the mead—though paling in comparison to that from Edoras—was good and plentiful.

"Tell me, Tun," he began, glancing over at his nephew. The young man was leaning against the battlements, a nearly full tankard in his hands.

"Tell you what, uncle?" Tun asked after a lengthy pause.

Setting his mug down on the parapet, Erkenbrand leaned closer. Over his nephew's shoulder, he could see dancing partners, whirling in a rush of gowns and fine cloaks. "Tell me about Gúthwyn."

Immediately, Tun straightened, his eyes focusing on Erkenbrand intently. "What about her?" he questioned.

"We shall start with why she has failed to notice that you are blatantly in love with her," Erkenbrand said, and watched as his nephew's face turned so red that it resembled King Éomer's armor.

"What do you mean, 'blatantly in love with her'?" Tun at last managed, folding his arms across his chest. "That is a bold accusation, uncle."

"A bold one," Erkenbrand allowed, "but a true one. You follow her around all the time under the excuse of being her champion. A single word from her is enough to brighten your day. Your mother has noticed it. I have noticed it. Éomer has noticed it—why do you think he gave you that lecture about respecting your superiors yesterday, when you were but a few seconds late to a meeting? That had nothing to do with your tardiness and everything to do with Gúthwyn."

Tun twisted the fabric of his cloak. "I do love her," he at last said, "but what makes you think it is any different from how the rest of the people feel?"

"Tun, I may be twenty-five years your senior, and soon to be an old man, but I am not senile," Erkenbrand replied, rolling his eyes. It was painfully obvious sometimes the extent of his nephew's affection for the lady Gúthwyn. The other guards teased him relentlessly about it, making all sorts of jokes about him being her champion; Éomer watched him like a hawk, his eyes glaring daggers whenever Tun came within so much as ten feet of his sister; all but Gúthwyn, as a matter of fact, were well aware of what was happening.

Absent-mindedly, his eyes followed the Elven prince Legolas as he danced with someone, though his partner was not tall enough for him to see. A faint smile came to his face as he remembered that Tun had had to teach the lady Gúthwyn many of the traditional steps.

Sighing, Tun then said, "I cannot lie to you, uncle."

"It would be foolish to try," Erkenbrand said, removing his eyes from Legolas and smirking.

"What does it matter, anyway?" Tun asked, his shoulders slumped. "Éomer will likely want her to marry someone of higher rank. Maybe even you." He glared at Erkenbrand, as if suggesting he would murder him should that come to pass.

"I have no desire for the lady Gúthwyn's hand," Erkenbrand responded evenly, "delightful as she is. And you can rest assured that, if she has any say in the matter, she will not marry someone she does not love. I doubt Éomer would have her betrothed to a man she dislikes."

"So I shall be forced to watch her fall in love with someone else?" Tun asked unhappily. "Uncle, you are not helping—"

"I have not finished yet," Erkenbrand cut him off, holding up a hand. "Regarding your concern about rank, I would say that for any other woman you would be absolutely right. Yet Gúthwyn is known for her love of the people; she has made that clear in the time since her return. She will not marry a peasant, but that you most certainly are not. You are a member of the royal guard, a high position in itself."

"What are you saying, then?" Tun questioned, though in his eyes a spark of hope suddenly flared.

"I am saying that perhaps you worry needlessly," Erkenbrand replied. "If your lady loves you, then she will marry you. Éomer may distrust your intent now, but any man who so much as speaks to either of his sisters will find himself under close scrutiny. Think of what the Steward of Gondor went through just to get a friendly remark from our king! Yet in the end he relented."

Tun was silent, milling all this over in his mind. Erkenbrand gave him a moment, focusing his attention on the dancers. Once again, his eyes were drawn to Legolas. The Elf moved with an unnatural grace, and the Rider found himself wondering whom his partner was. He did not recall seeing many female Elves when the delegations had arrived, though he had been awed by the splendor of the fair folk and would likely not have noticed if a dragon flew over the city.

Erkenbrand did not have long to wait, however, for soon Legolas had turned around. His stomach grew cold as he saw Gúthwyn, a brief smile lighting up her face as she spoke quietly with the Elf. He knew that the two of them were merely acquaintances, but he doubted that Tun would see it that way.

"Uncle?"

Tun's voice broke in on his thoughts, and he started to see his nephew looking at him in puzzlement. "Are you listening?"

"My apologies, Tun," Erkenbrand said, keeping half an eye on Legolas and Gúthwyn. "What were you saying?"

"You mentioned that she was not aware of the nature of my…" Tun paused, struggling for the right word.

"Affections," Erkenbrand finished for him, watching as Gúthwyn carried on her conversation with the Elf prince. Truthfully, he was not even aware that the two of them were friends. He had always thought that she kept a certain distance away from him; Tun had glared in his direction often enough, though he did not know the reason for such tensions. Maybe there was a grievance between them.

"Uncle, what has caught your attention so?" Tun cried exasperatedly, turning around to look. "You are hardly—"

The words died on his lips, and all his movements were stilled as he saw his lady dancing with Legolas. For a long time he stared at them, seemingly unable to move. Erkenbrand winced, fully aware that nothing he said would lessen the blow. He tried anyway. "Tun…"

His nephew turned slowly around, and Erkenbrand was looking into dark eyes so hurt and angry that they were nearly black. "Thank you, uncle," Tun said icily, setting his mug on the parapet with a loud _clunk,_ "for allowing me to make a fool of myself in such a manner."

"Tun, she is not—" It was too late. Tun strode away from him, his cloak rippling as he disappeared into the throng of people. Neither Gúthwyn nor Legolas noticed his departure.

Groaning, Erkenbrand took his mug. _That went well,_ he thought to himself, and drained the last of his mead.


	7. A Rift Between Sisters

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seven:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Seven**

Gúthwyn made her way out of the Houses of Healing, yawning tiredly as she went. It was not even noon—she had awoken to the sound of a water jug shattering just outside her door. Which was unfortunate, as she had retired to her room at an early hour in the morning, worn out from the night's festivities. Cobryn had ended up carrying poor Haiweth back; the girl had remained sound asleep.

Looking around the street, she was slightly surprised to see that Tun was nowhere in sight. He was usually there when she came out, as he took care to keep Hammel and Haiweth near the Houses until she woke up. Instead, Cobryn was the one watching the children, speaking quietly with Hammel as Haiweth ran around the two of them.

"Gúthwyn?" Cobryn asked in mock astonishment when he saw her, pretending to squint. "Is that my friend I see, up before the sun warms the top of my head?"

Gúthwyn groaned. "One of the healers dropped a jar and woke me up," she explained, yawning once more. "Trust me, it was not my decision to be up at this Valar-forsaken hour."

"I have been up since dawn," Hammel replied, looking as if he had the faintest inclination to laugh at her.

She made a face at him, and a small smile crept over his features. "Yes, little one," she said. "You are an early riser. I do not know how you and Cobryn stand it."

"Somehow we manage," Cobryn said wryly.

Haiweth came to a stop then, grinning up at Gúthwyn. Éomund's youngest daughter smiled, patting the top of the girl's head. "Good morning, Haiweth," she murmured. "I trust you, at least, slept well?"

The child nodded eagerly. "I got dressed all by myself," she announced proudly.

"Excellent!" Gúthwyn cried, and quickly glanced over Haiweth's clothing. A small grin came to her face. A blue slipper was on the girl's left foot, while a green one was on the right foot.

Deciding to save the color coordination lesson for the next day, Gúthwyn turned to Cobryn and asked, "Have you seen Tun?"

"Just once," Cobryn said. "He asked me to watch Hammel and Haiweth, for he was going to do some training."

She thanked him, and he nodded before frowning a little. "He seemed unhappy about something. Do you know what the cause of that might be?"

Now it was Gúthwyn's turn to frown. "No, I do not," she at last said. "I will go to him and see if I might discover what is troubling him. I hope it is nothing I have done."

Cobryn snorted. "In his eyes, I doubt you can do wrong."

"Please," she said, but could not keep the smile from her face. Tun was so kind to her that she often felt guilty for not knowing how to adequately respond.

A smirk was tugging at the corners of Cobryn's mouth, though he did not say anything.

"Well," she spoke after a slight pause, "I am going to go down to where the men are training to find him. Would anyone like to come?"

Hammel and Cobryn exchanged a glance. "Gúthwyn," Cobryn began, "I was wondering if I might take Hammel to the library of the White Tower. Faramir has kindly granted me permission to look through it in my spare time, and Hammel expressed an interest in learning how to read."

Gúthwyn's jaw clenched at the mention of Faramir, but she nodded. "Gandalf was just inquiring about his education yesterday," she replied. "I had thought about teaching him myself, though you will be a far better instructor." In truth, she was a little hurt about not being the one Hammel asked for lessons, yet she knew that he would learn more with Cobryn.

"Are you sure?" Cobryn questioned keenly, giving her a long look.

"Of course," Gúthwyn answered, smiling, and turned to Haiweth. "What about you, Haiweth? Would you like to accompany Cobryn and your brother as well?"

From the expression in his eyes, Hammel was not too happy about the idea, but his displeasure was needless. Haiweth shook her head firmly. "Books are _boring_," she declared, sticking her tongue out at her brother. "I want to go with you."

Gúthwyn could not help but laugh. "All right, little one," she said. "How about a visit to Tun, then?"

Haiweth agreed readily to this, and soon they had parted from Cobryn and Hammel. The two of them made their way down the streets, Haiweth keeping up such a strain of constant chatter that Gúthwyn was barely able to follow her.

"Haiweth," Gúthwyn began, hastily speaking while the child was taking a breath, "you speak faster than an arrow flies! The Gondorians do not place a time limit on sentences."

The girl giggled at the idea. "Hammel always says I talk too much," she then pouted, her mood switching instantly. "But he never talks."

Gúthwyn nodded. Hammel preferred to listen to people, and it was beginning to prove itself a useful trait. He was already extraordinary smart for his age; it was clear to see why Cobryn took an interest in him.

"Why does he want to _read?_" Haiweth asked, taking Gúthwyn from her thoughts. Wrinkling her nose, she added, "Why does he say it will be fun?"

Smiling, at the same time doubting that Hammel had ever used the word "fun" in his life, Gúthwyn replied, "You might not think highly of it, but there are many who take pleasure from reading. And you will learn how to, in time."

Haiweth scrunched up her face in displeasure. "Do you know how to read?" she wanted to know.

"I do," Gúthwyn answered, just as the sounds of training men came to her ears. "I was taught when I was about your age."

They rounded a corner then, and gazed upon a wide-open space where several men were practicing with blunt swords. Rohirrim and Gondorians alike sparred with each other, exchanging blows and laughter while onlookers encouraged them cheeringly. Gúthwyn drew nearer, recognizing a few of the men.

It took her a moment to locate Tun. He was fighting with Elfhelm, the latter of whom looked as if he were losing badly. As Gúthwyn observed them, she became aware that Tun's blows were harder than necessary, and his face was contorted in a furious concentration that she knew all too well. It was the mark of someone taking out their frustration on an unfortunate opponent.

Tun pushed the Rider back relentlessly, each of his strikes more powerful than the last. At length, Elfhelm was too slow to block one of the attacks, and such was the force behind it that he was knocked clean off his feet and landed with a _thud_ on the ground. Tun bent down to help him up, seeming only the slightest bit sheepish.

"Tun, my friend," Elfhelm panted as he was pulled to his feet, "what has gotten into you? I am not sure what I have done to deserve such a beating."

Her champion was about to reply when he caught sight of Gúthwyn. For the first time since her return to Rohan, he did not smile at her, though many of the men were grinning as Haiweth let out gasps of surprise at what was happening before her eyes. Instead, he merely nodded, his grip on his sword tightening. Gúthwyn knitted her brow in confusion, completely at a loss as to his anger, and even more surprised that some of it was directed at her.

Elfhelm glanced over and saw her. He waved, inclining his head when she returned the gesture. Clapping Tun briefly on the shoulder, the Rider muttered something in his ear and went to find another partner.

"Come, Haiweth," Gúthwyn said, and they made their way towards him, careful to avoid the other men. Her champion was still as they approached, and her puzzlement grew. "Hello, Tun," she greeted him cautiously.

"Hello," he replied shortly, not meeting her eyes fully. His fists grew whiter.

There was an awkward pause, and at last Gúthwyn said, "Will you go with Haiweth and I on a short walk?"

"Do you truly want my company?" Tun asked, his voice uncharacteristically harsh.

Gúthwyn blinked, astonished by his tone. "I…" she began, utterly confused.

He sighed, and bowed his head. "My apologies," he spoke gruffly, sheathing his sword. "As you wish."

She looked at him for another moment, but when he did not say anything she turned and walked away from the training grounds. He followed behind her, remaining silent as she led him around the corner towards a less crowded area of the street.

At length she came to a stop, and faced him once more. "Tun," she said quietly, and Haiweth strained to listen, "is anything wrong?"

"No," he said, his fingers drumming on his leg. Gúthwyn frowned, knowing that he was not speaking truthfully.

"Have I angered you in some way?" she pressed, drawing closer to him. "Was it something I said at the celebration?"

His eyes narrowed, and she quickly went through her conversation with him last night. Yet she could think of no words or actions that would have invoked his current mood. "Tun, I do not understand what I have done, but I can assure you that I had no malicious intent," she told him, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder. His eyes darted to it, and he made as if to move away, but she did not let him go. "Please," she said, "tell me what is troubling you."

"Why did you dance with Legolas?" he suddenly lashed out, the words so unexpected that for a moment she could not even speak. His eyes turned dark at her silence.

"I-Is that what has been bothering you?" Gúthwyn asked in bewilderment, though glad that it was nothing serious. "I thought it would be…"

"What?" Tun asked, a hurt tone in his voice that she had never heard before. "More important?"

"No, I did not mean it like—" she started hastily, but he cut her off.

"Forget it," he said, folding his arms over his chest. "If you will excuse me—"

"I have not excused you," Gúthwyn replied, and his eyes widened. She leaned forward, keeping her hand firmly on his shoulder. "Tun, I am sorry for insulting you. I promise, I had no desire to."

"So you will not deny that you danced with him?" he asked.

"Of course not," Gúthwyn said. "He pitied me, I deem. Who am I to refuse an offer made in kindness over so trivial a matter? Besides, I owe him for all the grievances I have caused him."

"You owe him nothing," Tun snarled, the vehemence in his voice hitting her as if he had slapped her across the face. She recoiled, gaping at him in shock. Haiweth whimpered and clung to her leg. It was then that he realized what he had said. His face flushed crimson, and he could not meet her eyes. "My lady, forgive me," he breathed, stumbling slightly over his words. "I should not have—I did not intend—"

"Tun," Gúthwyn said quietly, thinking that she knew the cause of her champion's distress. "I am flattered by your worry, but I promise you that Legolas is honorable. He will not harm me. Please, do not feel as if you have to protect me from him."

For a long moment, Tun looked at her, and there was a strange expression in his eyes that she could not read. "My uncle was right," he at last murmured to himself, a wry smile crossing his face.

"What did he say?" Gúthwyn asked hesitantly, unsure about what was going on.

He shook his head. "Gúthwyn, I…" Then he seemed to think better of what he was going to say. "Never mind. I am sorry."

Gúthwyn was still slightly confused, but she did not press him, as she was happier that he was not angry with her. "Would you like to go for a walk?" she asked at length.

To this he agreed, and they spent the rest of the day together. Neither of them mentioned the conversation again; indeed, Gúthwyn soon forgot about it, and it was not until far later that she realized what its true significance was.

* * *

The sun had only been shining over Minas Tirith for a few hours, yet—much to her dismay—Gúthwyn was already awake, having been roused out of bed by Éowyn less than ten minutes ago.

"Éowyn, I am packing as swiftly as I might!" she exclaimed, scrambling around her room to find Beregil's book. To her relief, it was in a set of drawers along with her cloaks. She carefully placed all of the items in her bag, repressing a yawn as she did so.

"We have to be at the Tower of Ecthelion within the hour, and you have not even changed out of your nightgown!" Éowyn replied, striding to the dresser and examining the contents.

Gúthwyn did not say anything, but continued to retrieve the rest of her belongings. There were not many: Aside from her cloaks, Beregil's book, and the toy horse that Hammel had given her, she had little else to bring along with her. All that was left were her crutches; she would take them with her, but they were more of a precaution than a necessity.

For it was now the month of July. Nearly a season had gone by since she had received her injuries, and they were almost fully recovered. At times her ribs still pained her, but they were weak from long abuse and such discomfort was only to be expected. In any case, she would be able to ride the entire journey home, provided she did not hurt herself again.

Yet this was no mere trip home. Éomer had departed from Gondor some time ago so that he might reorder the Mark. Much of this included seeing to the reparation of Helm's Deep, but there were several titles and ranks he had to assign. Éowyn and Gúthwyn had remained in the White City, the former because she had wanted to spend more time with the Lord Faramir and the latter because she was not deemed fit to travel. So they had had to rely on letters and messengers for their news—it had succeeded in driving Gúthwyn mad, not being able to witness the events firsthand.

Among those who had received honors from her brother was Elfhelm, who had been declared the Marshal of the East-mark. The Marshal of the West-mark was Erkenbrand, Tun's uncle. Previously, the Marshal of the East-mark had been the Second Marshal of the Mark, and that of the West-mark the Third, but now all differences between the ranks were demolished. Éomer himself was the Marshal of the Mark, as he was young and able to lead the army out—before his illness, Théoden had done the same. Gamling remained the captain of the royal guards, a position no less honorable than many.

In addition to the ordering of the army, Éomer had been busy signing numerous treaties with King Elessar. The old vow of allegiance had been renewed before he had gone back to Rohan, but there were still many matters that had to be addressed. The trade routes were reopened again, and already there was a great flow of commerce between the two realms. Her brother had also remained in contact with Prince Imrahil, as there was a great friendship between them and both hoped to strengthen the relationship between their two peoples.

Now, Éomer had returned to Gondor to bear the body of Théoden back to the Mark. He would rest tonight in the White City, but as they would be leaving at the break of dawn the next day, all the packing had to be finished well in advance. Éowyn had awoken her early this morning so that they could greet their brother when he arrived, which was expected to be anytime soon.

"Gúthwyn," Éowyn said then, removing her from her thoughts, "how about this dress?"

Gúthwyn turned around to see her sister holding up a long white gown. It was the only one of that color in her wardrobe, and it had been the garment that she had shoved in the back of the dresser. She did not deserve to wear white. The color stood for purity, of which she had none.

"I think it would flatter you," Éowyn explained, "and you wear grey too often."

"No," Gúthwyn said flatly.

Éowyn's eyes widened the slightest bit. "Why not?" she questioned, taken aback by the adamant refusal.

"Will you hand me a grey one?" Gúthwyn asked, dodging the inquiry.

Her sister retained her hold on the dress. "Gúthwyn, you wear that color all the time. Should the people not see you in something else, especially on such an occasion?"

"I fail to see why Gondorians should have a care about my clothing," Gúthwyn replied, folding her arms across her stomach.

Éowyn sighed. "Sister, you are being childish. Of course they care! If you have not noticed, ever since the Lady Lothíriel's arrival women of nobility have been imitating her fashion."

"I am _not_ being childish," Gúthwyn snapped, "and if they are paying so much attention to Lothíriel, then they will not notice me. Furthermore, I am surprised you of all people are arguing against me on this. Since when is fashion important to you?"

"When I marry Faramir," Éowyn answered, and Gúthwyn's eyes closed briefly, "I will be an attendant of the court of Gondor, where such things are of great concern amongst the women, whether I like it or not."

"Then kindly keep your advice to yourself," Gúthwyn said irritably as she marched over to her dresser to pull out a grey dress, "and do not dispense it to me, for it will fall on deaf ears."

Éowyn stiffened, clearly surprised at the retort. Gúthwyn exhaled. "Éowyn, I am sorry," she said wearily. "I did not mean to grow angry with you."

"Is everything all right?" Éowyn asked softly, placing the white gown back in the dresser.

"I am fine," Gúthwyn said automatically.

Her sister did not look as if she believed her, but she turned around so that Gúthwyn might have some privacy to change. Hastily she did this, putting on a pair of leggings beneath the riding dress so that she did not feel so constricted. When she was done, she and Éowyn finished the packing, neither having much to say to the other after their minor argument.

In truth, Gúthwyn now often felt a distance between her and her sister. Éowyn was rarely seen outside of the company of Lord Faramir, and as she was trying to avoid the man as much as was humanly possible, she sometimes went for days without seeing her older sibling. She suspected that Éowyn had once spoken to Éomer about this, for her brother had made an inquiry during one of his few dinners with her, but they did not talk of the growing estrangement amongst themselves.

It pained her to know that she could no longer confide in Éowyn the way she used to. As much as she disliked Faramir, she would never tell her sister what the man had done for fear of diminishing her happiness. And Éowyn certainly did not visit her as often as she used to: Their recent conversations had all ended awkwardly, usually because Gúthwyn had grown impatient with her talking about the Steward. So now, as if Faramir had thought killing Borogor not enough, he had caused a rift between her and her sister.

She and Éowyn soon left the room and went outside, where they were greeted cheerily by Haiweth. The little girl was wearing her best dress, and had clearly whittled Hammel down to tying ribbons in her hair. "Gúthwyn, look!" she cried, and twirled around. The edges of the gown spun out with her.

A broad smile came to Gúthwyn's face. "You are very pretty today, Haiweth," she replied, and Haiweth beamed. "Now, have you seen your brother?"

"He and Cobryn went to the library _again_," Haiweth answered, pouting. "Cobryn told me to stay in the Houses."

"And did you?" Gúthwyn asked, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips even though her voice was stern.

Haiweth hung her head. "I only went outside a little," she muttered.

"I suppose we will have to punish you, then," Gúthwyn said, winking conspiratorially at Éowyn.

The girl's shoulders slumped.

"You must walk with us up to the White Tower, and be on your best behavior to greet King Éomer when he arrives."

Haiweth looked up in confusion, but when she saw Gúthwyn's smiling face she shouted for joy. Éowyn laughed to see such delightedness.

"What a wonderful child," she marveled in a low tone as Haiweth pranced around the street. "I can only hope that my own will bring me such joy."

"I pray that you are not suggesting otherwise," Gúthwyn replied. She would not begrudge her sister a blissful life, though it would be spent with a man whom she despised. It cost her much pain to admit it, but whenever Éowyn was in the company of Faramir her face glowed with happiness.

And, upon their return to Rohan, she would be forced to watch as Éomer made the declaration that would wed her sister to the Steward: Éowyn had wanted the ceremony to take place in her home, in Meduseld. She did not even want to think about what would happen later that night, when the feast had ended and the couple had retreated to their chamber. The very idea of Faramir touching Éowyn in such a manner, though with her wholehearted consent, was enough to make her want to vomit.

"Gúthwyn?"

"My apologies," Éomund's youngest daughter said, shaking herself out of her reverie and glancing over at Éowyn. "W-What were you saying?"

"You look pale," Éowyn commented concernedly. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I am fine," Gúthwyn hastily replied, ignoring the arch of her sister's eyebrow. "Shall we go up to the Tower?"

To this, Éowyn agreed, if reluctant to abandon her inquiry about Gúthwyn's health, and they were getting Haiweth ready for the walk when Hammel and Cobryn returned. Gúthwyn greeted them gladly. "Will you go with us to wait for my brother?" she asked.

"Of course," Cobryn answered, smiling. "Though I daresay he will not be the only one anxious to see you."

Gúthwyn knitted her brow, but as Cobryn smirked at her, the meaning became apparent. "Cobryn, please, give poor Tun some relief from your insults! To think that you call yourself his friend!" she cried in exasperation, rather embarrassed that he persisted on teasing, however good-spiritedly, her champion.

"I am most certainly his friend," Cobryn said, "though he makes my comments only too easy to administer."

Gúthwyn did not understand what he meant by this, and while Éowyn chuckled, she was at a loss. "Let us go, then," she said after a moment, putting the conversation out of her thoughts. "I am eager to see Éomer again."

They made their way up to the seventh level, pausing now and then to return the well wishes of some of the healers. As Lord Faramir had made no secret of his love for her, to say nothing of the fact that she had slain the Witch-king, Éowyn was the subject of much attention by the Gondorians. Gúthwyn could safely say that she did not envy her sister the scrutiny, as she remembered the frowning nobles who had looked down their noses at her and the children.

When they came to the Tower, Cobryn spoke to one of the guards. It was found that an _éored_—an entire _éored_—had been seen within a few miles of the city, and were soon to arrive. Gúthwyn found herself as impatient as Haiweth for a glimpse of the Riders, and would have rushed to the battlements had such antics not been frowned upon by the uptight Gondorian nobility.

The guards let them into the Tower, and there they merged into a congregation of various highly ranked Gondorians. King Elessar presided over the scene with Queen Arwen at his side, and they went over to pay their respects to him.

"Your highness," Gúthwyn and Éowyn both murmured, curtsying. Cobryn bowed; Hammel did, as well, though Haiweth was unaware of the procedures one had to follow when speaking to royalty. Gúthwyn rather envied her obliviousness, for she found such courtly affairs tedious and foolish.

"Welcome, good ladies," Aragorn said, smiling at them. Arwen inclined her head gracefully, instilling another surge of envy at her beauty within Gúthwyn.

"It is pleasing to see you on your feet again," the Queen spoke to Gúthwyn, who blinked: She had rather doubted that Arwen was even aware of her presence in the city.

Recovering, she said, "Aye, though none can be so pleased as I. Cobryn was kind enough to give me crutches, and I sometimes regret my delight in casting them away."

Aragorn laughed a little at this. "I deem that such happiness is not sinful."

Gúthwyn would have responded, but just then Faramir came over. She closed her mouth abruptly as he bowed to Aragorn, and then to their party. Éowyn left her side and went to stand by the Steward, placing her hand in his contentedly. Gúthwyn's stomach twisted painfully.

"If you will excuse me, King Elessar, Queen Arwen," she said, struggling to keep her gaze from being fixed on her sister's future husband, "I go now to speak to the Halflings, with whom I have not conversed in a great time."

She left the group, ignoring the hurt look on Éowyn's face: Her sister all too clearly connected her departure with Faramir's arrival. Only feeling somewhat guilty for making her motives so obvious, Gúthwyn went over to the Hobbits, and was greeted quite cheerily by them.

"We were just in a debate," Pippin told her, "about which of the Shire's inns serves the finest ale." Merry and Sam nodded vigorously, though she could not help but notice that Frodo seemed more reserved than his companions.

Smiling, Gúthwyn said, "Unfortunately, I cannot help you there. Indeed, I have but once had the mead of which you speak, and I did not find it to my tastes."

Merry looked shocked. "How can that be, my lady?" he demanded, his eyes wide. "You must have had poor quality ale, and that is most difficult to find."

"I will let you be the judge of the quality," Gúthwyn told him: "It was served in my uncle's hall, and I remember that you and Pippin appeared to enjoy it immensely."

Pippin and Merry both cried out in astonishment. "That was excellent mead!" Pippin declared. "Though, begging your pardon, I'm afraid I prefer Old Barliman's." Barliman Butterbur was the owner of the Prancing Pony, an inn that had entered the tale of their flight from the Shire. It was there that the Nazgûl had nearly discovered them, and where they had first met Aragorn under the name of Strider.

"No offense taken," she assured him. He was relieved at this, and soon their discussion turned to the last birthday party that Frodo's uncle Bilbo Baggins had thrown. It was an interesting tale, as Bilbo had used the Ring to disappear on his flabbergasted guests, and for a time she was content to merely listen.

Sam was in the middle of recounting the dazzling fireworks that Gandalf had sent into the sky when messengers arrived in the hall, announcing that King Éomer had entered the White City and was drawing towards the Tower of Ecthelion. Instantly, a buzz of excitement filled the air. Everyone found their places along the wall; unlike when Arwen had been brought to Minas Tirith, Éomer and his _éored_ were to be received inside the Tower. Gúthwyn returned to her sister and Cobryn, careful to place herself as far away from Faramir as possible.

Soon, the doors had opened. Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat as Éomer strode inside, looking exceedingly handsome in his attire. His hair was long and flowing; none of the tiredness that she had observed in June was now upon his face. Behind him marched Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, and Gamling, followed by the royal guard and then the remainder of the _éored._ Across the hall from her, near Legolas and Gimli, Gúthwyn saw that Lothíriel's eyes were fixed on her brother.

Éomer smiled at her and Éowyn as he drew nearer, and then knelt before King Elessar. Arwen bade him stand; as he did, a few brief words were exchanged. Gúthwyn found Tun amongst the guards, and when he glanced over at her a broad grin lit up his face. She returned the silent greeting, having missed him greatly in his absence—his duties had required him to return with the king to Rohan.

The welcoming ceremony was soon over, and as the people began mingling once more, Éomer immediately made his way over to his sisters. Gúthwyn waited patiently as her brother hugged Éowyn, commenting that she seemed even more beautiful than when he had left her.

"Éomer, you do flatter me," the White Lady said, though her face was flushed with pleasure.

"Then perhaps I shall not, and call you an old hag?" Éomer asked, smirking at the idea.

"A poor insult," Éowyn retorted, hardly even blinking. "Even you, dear brother, could come up with better. Or have all of your duties wracked your brain so thoroughly?"

"Aye," Gúthwyn added; "perhaps I should send for Cobryn, who has disarmed many a man with his words. He would have no trouble finding a slight for the occasion."

Éomer's answer to that was to sweep her in a bone-crushing hug, which she returned gladly. "How have you been?" he inquired, pulling back a little to examine her. "You no longer use your crutches?"

"I have been well, and no, I do not," Gúthwyn answered, beaming. "The healers mercifully pronounced me fit to walk around without them."

"And your ribs will not pain you during the journey?" Éomer asked quickly.

"Do not worry, brother," she said. "I am not to be deterred from riding Heorot, and I pity the man who tries to convince me otherwise."

Éomer laughed heartily at this. "Then I shall not," he said, "yet if I should see but the merest grimace cross your face, I will drag you from the saddle myself, and tie you onto a carriage if needs be."

Gúthwyn made a face. "That would be most humiliating," she replied.

A wry grin tugged at Éomer's lips as he turned to Éowyn. "Sister, where is the Lord Faramir?" he asked, and Gúthwyn felt her smile falter. "I had thought that he could not bear to be parted from you."

Éowyn ignored the jibe and turned around, scanning the crowd for the Steward. Hastily, Gúthwyn glanced at the people as well, though her intent was to find someone else she could speak to.

Luckily, Tun approached them at the same time as Éowyn located Faramir and called him over. "Hello, my lady," he spoke, bowing. Éomer turned a beady eye on him. "The days have been long without you."

"I have missed you, as well," Gúthwyn said, and embraced him. As he lightly rested his hands on her waist, she added, "If I do not see your uncle, tell him that I give him my congratulations on his new rank."

"I will do whatever it is you desire," Tun answered swiftly and earnestly.

"Gúthwyn." Éomer's voice echoed warningly from behind her, and she realized that her arms were still wrapped around her champion. It was hardly an intimate hug, but as she pulled away she became aware that many around them were watching her closely. Evidently, such contact was not holding to the standards that propriety decreed.

Tun's face turned faintly red, and he bowed to her brother. "My apologies, my lord," he murmured, stumbling a little over his words under the gazes of Éomer, Éowyn, and Faramir.

"Nay, Tun, I should have known better than to so much as talk to a man in Éomer's presence," Gúthwyn said laughingly. "I am afraid I have put you in danger of being beheaded!"

"You exaggerate, sister," Éomer responded, though his eyes were dark as he met Tun's flustered ones.

"Actually," Faramir said then, exchanging a glance with Éowyn, "might I be permitted to speak for a moment with Gúthwyn?"

It was hard to say who was more surprised: Her, Éomer, or Tun. Éomer was the first to recover, replying before Gúthwyn even had time to regain her breath. "As you wish," he said, nodding. "Shall we leave you alone?"

"No, really, that is not necessary," Gúthwyn quickly answered, feeling herself growing hot and her hands turn clammy. "I am sure that whatever it is he has to say can be voiced in front of everyone."

"Sister," Éowyn said, and there was a steely tone in her speech that Gúthwyn did not think she had ever heard before. "Pray do not refuse him."

Panicking slightly, Gúthwyn looked at Éomer to help, but he did not appear to see any harm in the idea. As a matter of fact, he raised his eyebrows when she turned to him, at a loss as to what was troubling her.

"Fine," she at last said, gritting her teeth. "Where do you want to go?" she asked Faramir, trying to keep as much civility in her words as possible and failing rather miserably.

"Will you accompany me outside?" Faramir inquired, and she had no other choice but to nod. "It will only be for a few minutes."

Both more annoyed and fearful at this than she wanted to admit, Gúthwyn followed him as he led her through the hall and to the doors. She always kept a few paces behind him, so that just in case he attempted to start a conversation with her she could pretend not to hear him over the crowd. It was an immature attitude, she knew, but she did not wish to have to speak with Borogor's killer anymore than was needed.

Once they had left the White Tower, they walked in silence until they were far enough from the guards so that they would not be heard. Faramir paused once they had reached the battlements, and Gúthwyn halted as well, remaining five feet away from him.

"Gúthwyn," he began, turning to her and fiddling with his cloak, "Éowyn and I"—she winced—"have both noticed that you seem to be… avoiding her. Is it my presence that turns you away?"

She folded her arms across her stomach. "And what do you think is the answer to that, _Lord Faramir_, captain of the Ithilien Rangers?" she asked.

He looked somewhat disappointed. "I had thought as much," he admitted, "though I will say that it was her idea that I speak to you."

"So now you blame my sister?" Gúthwyn demanded angrily, glaring at him. "Watch the path you travel on, Steward."

"I have done no such thing," Faramir replied, his eyes narrowing. "Yet I must ask you if a casualty of war is worth compromising Éowyn's happiness."

"_How dare you?_" Gúthwyn hissed, and would have slapped him if he had not been betrothed to her sister. "You know nothing of him besides his name! You know nothing of who he was to me! And yet you say that I should watch his murderer murmur sweet words into my sister's ear? That I should watch as you kiss her and hold her hand, all so that she might enjoy my company if she even notices that I am present? And then when I am ignored, twiddle my thumbs and idly reflect on how you killed him?"

"Gúthwyn, I know that you have no reason to like me," Faramir said levelly, and her eyes flashed dangerously at him. "I know there is nothing I can do to amend the past, only to hope that some day you will forgive me for the things a man does when defending his country."

"He was one of _your own people!_" Gúthwyn whispered, her eyes blurring.

"To me, he was a servant of the Enemy, as were you," Faramir said, his voice calm. In his eyes, however, was great distress. "Gúthwyn, please, if you cannot tolerate me, I beg of you at the least to not shun Éowyn's company. It saddens her that you no longer will see her."

"Are these her own words?" Gúthwyn inquired, hardly believing that her sister would express her concerns to her through a third party. It was a cowardly approach.

"No," Faramir admitted. "She thinks I only ask you the reason of your recent estrangement from her. But she is disquieted because of the distance between her and you, and she is not happy as she deserves to be."

"If you seek," Gúthwyn began, trembling with fury, "to guilt me into accepting you, know this: If you would have but parted yourself from her for a day, if you could have stood it, then maybe we would not be in this situation now. I see no point in denying that I have been avoiding you."

"Gúthwyn, Éowyn and I are getting married," Faramir said quietly. "Whenever you go to visit her, I will be there. I wish that we had met under better circumstances, but we cannot change them."

"Then you have succeeded, Faramir, in taking away two of the people I love most."

For a long time, the Steward looked at her. "So I cannot sway you?" he finally asked softly. "You will not give us your blessing?"

"I care deeply for my sister," Gúthwyn replied. "I will do anything to see her happy. But understand that I cannot long tolerate your company, and to force me to do so would only bring out the worst in me, and that will not help matters at all. Maybe in time I will learn to ignore what you have done. As for a blessing, do not ask me for one. My brother has given his, and that is all you need."

"What shall I tell Éowyn, then?" Faramir asked.

She paused for a moment. "Tell her that my grievance with you is merely that I do not want her parted from me, which is the truth. Do not mention him, for I would at least have her thoughts of you untainted."

Faramir nodded, a great sorrow in his eyes. "Gúthwyn, I am—"

"Please, Faramir," she said, her hands quaking and her voice cracking over the hard lump in her throat. "I do not wish to speak with you anymore than is absolutely necessary. Nor do I want to remember that day. Please do not seek me out again."

He did not say anything. Her eyes glistened as she turned away, and when she began walking it was not towards the White Tower, but towards the Houses of Healing.


	8. Théoden's Funeral

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eight:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eight**

The next day, Théoden son of Thengel had departed from Minas Tirith, accompanied by a mighty escort. In addition to King Éomer, Lady Éowyn, Lady Gúthwyn, the royal guard, and the _éored_, King Elessar rode forth by the side of Queen Arwen, along with the Elves and Faramir, Prince Imrahil with his three sons and daughter, the Halflings, Gandalf the Grey, and countless warriors who wished to pay their respects to the former king. Such a guard for one man had rarely been seen.

Their riding was slow and unhurried, as there was no danger on the roads anymore. King Elessar had seen to it that their going would be unhindered, and all breathed easily without fear of a sudden ambush. Gúthwyn, herself, had had enough of those to last her a lifetime. She now rode alongside her brother and sister; mercifully, Faramir was in the company of King Elessar, and she did not have to worry about him.

For the first time in weeks, she was able to keep a normal conversation with her siblings, who spoke not of the future—of Faramir—but of the past, the days of their innocence that were now memories soon to be faded. Though Théoden was in a bier not too far away, the occasion was not somber, and they were able to partake in some laughter about former escapades. Gúthwyn, in particular, was the subject of much jest, as she had been wrestling with the boys ever since she was five years old.

"Do you still engage in such activities, sister?" Éomer asked, raising his eyebrows at her. "I think even you are too old for them."

Gúthwyn smiled, injecting as much dignity into the gesture as possible. Her mind, however, raced back to countless practice sessions with Borogor, who had allowed her to attack him when the mood struck her. He always fought back, restraining nothing; likewise, she had withheld none of her fury from him. As she recalled their countless skirmishes, the vast majority of which she had won, it pained her to realize how foolish she had been in not seeing the love that they held for each other. Even when she was a child she had not wrestled so ferociously, so intimately—yet she had with Borogor.

The group suddenly halted, causing her to look up. They had arrived at a forest, one that she soon recognized to belong to the Woses. Their leader, Ghân-buri-Ghân, had helped Théoden and his Riders through their woods in order to escape detection by the Orcs when they rode to the aid of Gondor. Gúthwyn had been with them, and had heard for herself the drums that were now beating ceaselessly from inside the trees.

Lord Aragorn's heralds stepped forth, and in loud voices they declared, "Behold, the King Elessar is come! The forest of Drúadan he gives to Ghân-buri-Ghân and to his folk, to be their own forever; and hereafter let no man enter without their leave!"

Gúthwyn listened as the drums reached a crescendo and then faded; she peered into the foliage, but could see naught of the strange creatures that lived there. Théoden's escort soon departed, Aragorn having nothing more to say. She cast a glance back at the trees as they faded into the horizon, and thought that she had caught the briefest glimpse of a shadow flitting amongst the trunks.

They journeyed for just over two weeks, going at a leisurely pace. In the nights, Gúthwyn slept with Hammel and Haiweth, despite the safety of the road feeling a need to protect them. During the days, she frequently rode between her siblings; yet Faramir soon took to joining them, and she found herself depending more on the company of Cobryn, Lebryn, and Tun. If Éowyn and Éomer noticed this, which they most likely did, neither of them spoke to her about it. Éowyn was perfectly friendly, if a little distant, and Éomer's disposition towards her had not changed at all.

She awoke one morning, her sleep disturbed by Cobryn, who had taken it upon himself—all too cheerily, in her opinion—to rouse her each day. He informed her that they would arrive in Edoras by nightfall.

"Thank the Valar," she breathed, instantly awake. At least in her home she would have some peace; nor would she have to endure such close quarters with Faramir. A broad smile stretched across her face. "It has been too long."

"Aye," Cobryn replied, helping her to her feet. "Though I wish my city had pleased you more."

Gúthwyn knitted her brow as she was reminded of something that had puzzled her. "Why did you not remain in Gondor?" she asked curiously. "I am grateful for your company, moreso than perhaps you know, but I thought you loved Minas Tirith."

"I do," Cobryn answered, shrugging his shoulders. "But my family is no longer there, for whatever reason, and—if I may be so bold as to sound like your champion—I do not wish to be parted from you. Our reunion has been too brief for that."

She could not conceal the blush coloring her cheeks. "What did I do to deserve such kindness?" she wondered aloud.

Cobryn bowed. "Only this: You are a great friend of mine, and I will not abandon those whom I hold close to my heart. And I hope to be of assistance to you and to your brother, if he will allow it."

"Théoden consented to you returning with us," Gúthwyn reminded him as they went to join the rest of the men for a light breakfast. "My brother would be a fool not to extend the same courtesy."

"What courtesy?" someone questioned, and she turned to see Éomer approaching them, a small bowl of stew in his hands and a yawn on his face.

"Of letting Cobryn and Lebryn stay in the service of the king," Gúthwyn answered promptly.

Cobryn coughed discreetly, and she became aware that she might have been a little less blunt in her declaration, but there was nothing to be done about it. Instead, she watched as Éomer paused, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Well," he said at length, giving Cobryn a long look, "I suppose something can be arranged. Lebryn is still in good health, is he not?"

"He received nary a scratch from Pelennor Fields or the Black Gate, my lord," Cobryn informed him.

Éomer opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment Haiweth bounded over to them, unnaturally energetic at such an hour in the morning. Gúthwyn scooped the child up in her arms, kissing her on the forehead. "Did you sleep well?" she asked her.

Haiweth nodded, and then waved at Cobryn and Éomer. "Hammel is being _boring_," she complained, as she had been doing lately. "He keeps reading!"

Sure enough, when Gúthwyn glanced over at the boy's pallet, he was engrossed in a small book that Cobryn had given him. His lessons had progressed remarkably, but she could see the tip of his tongue sticking between his lips, and his brow was furrowed in concentration.

"I want to ride with _you_ today," Haiweth announced, and Gúthwyn returned her attention to the girl.

"I see no objection to that," she murmured, bouncing Haiweth on her hip as much as her ribs would allow it. When she next looked up at Éomer, she saw to her surprise that his expression was not pleased. "What troubles you, brother?"

Haiweth turned her head to gaze at Éomer, sticking her thumb back in her mouth. Gently, Gúthwyn pulled it out. "We are learning to forget that habit, remember?" she whispered. Haiweth frowned.

Éomer gave her another look, one that said he wished to speak with her in private. Puzzled, she kissed Haiweth one last time and lowered her to the ground. "Go get your things ready, little one," she said, and Haiweth pouted for a moment before returning to her brother.

When the girl was safely out of earshot, Gúthwyn glanced at Éomer. "What do you wish to tell me?"

Sounding awkward, Éomer answered, "Sister, I would caution you against riding with her, especially as we near Edoras."

Knitting her brow, Gúthwyn asked, "Why?"

"Because," Éomer began carefully, "everyone knows that you are not married; yet if they see you with a child, it will seem…" He trailed off, at a loss for words.

"As if you have been improperly conducting yourself," Cobryn finished grimly.

Gúthwyn stared back and forth between the two of them. "That is ridiculous!" she at last managed, flushing with embarrassment. "Hammel is only eleven years younger than I am!"

"Not everyone will see it that way," Éomer replied darkly. "I, for one, noticed the disapproving looks the Gondorian nobles were giving you."

"I do not care what they think!" Gúthwyn responded, though their frowning faces had disturbed her. "Your people will know better."

"Who says they will?" Éomer countered. "You were gone for over seven years, Gúthwyn. A lot can happen in that time."

Gúthwyn froze, all the color draining from her face as she gaped at him in horror. For Éomer to say something like that, knowing fully well the extent to which Haldor had disgraced her… "Éomer," she whispered, feeling tears coming to her eyes.

"I did not mean it that way, sister," Éomer said quietly, placing his hands on her shoulders. Leaning close so that their brows were almost touching, he continued, "I only have your best interests in mind."

She nodded shakily, trying to steady her breathing. "I-I am sorry…"

"I should not have been so careless with my speech," Éomer replied, overriding her apology. "Please understand that I would keep you from gossip that has destroyed many a reputation."

"I-I do," she said, and he patted her once on the arm before releasing her.

"You should have something to eat," he told her concernedly, looking at her thin body. "I fear I will soon be able to close my fist around your waist."

"I will," she promised him, inwardly cringing at the thought of stomaching something this early in the morning.

Éomer smiled, reassured, and then left them, going to speak with Gamling. She turned back to Cobryn, who had been watching her closely. "Is everything all right?" he inquired, glancing at her with keen eyes.

"I am fine," she muttered, and surveyed the encampment for where she might get some breakfast.

"You only say 'I am fine' when you are _not_ fine," Cobryn answered shrewdly, but when she did not respond he abandoned the subject.

* * *

_Out of dark, out of doubt, to the day's rising  
__he rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.  
__Hope he rekindled, and in hope he ended;  
__over death, over dread, over doom lifted  
__out of loss, out of life, unto long glory._

The slow, sonorous voices of the guards echoed in Gúthwyn's ears as she watched her uncle's bier being carried down to his final resting place. In the fading light of the afternoon, his golden hair gleamed against his skin, fiery even though his spirit had departed. He held his sword in his hands, much as Théodred had done. Yet he was an old man, and his loss not as painfully felt as that of the young prince. The king had lived to do great deeds, earning him a place amongst the highest of his ancestors.

She stood beside Éowyn and Éomer, shedding not a tear, but numb with sadness as Théoden was lowered slowly by the Riders into the open mouth of his barrow. The weeping of women and children surrounded her, as did the somber figures of Gondorian and Rohan nobility. Prince Imrahil and his sons and daughters were to her right, their heads bowed in respect. King Elessar and Queen Arwen stood hand in hand, a brief glimmer in Aragorn's eyes as the stone door was closed.

Before the mound knelt Merry, tears streaming down his face. He had grown close to her uncle, if only for a brief time, and felt keenly the loss of his passing. As the guards finished their song, he got to his feet and cried, "Théoden King, Théoden King! Farewell! As a father you were to me, for a little while." Gúthwyn glanced at her sister, and saw that Éowyn's cheeks were wet. "Farewell!"

Éomer stood forward, holding in his hand a pale blossom of the _simbelmynë_. The eyes of everyone were on him as he murmured a blessing and cast the flower onto the fresh mound. More would grow in time, but for now the small white star shone amidst the rolling green sky. Théoden son of Thengel had been laid to rest, his body never to be seen by mankind again. It struck her how much she missed him: He had treated both her and Éowyn as the daughters he never had, and Éomer as a second son with no less love than Théodred. Now he was gone, and they had lost a father as well as a brother.

She folded her arms across her stomach as the people began dispersing, returning to their homes so that they could change for the feast being held that evening. Théoden's life would be celebrated there, as would the marriage of Éowyn and Faramir. A shudder ran through her at the thought. Within a few weeks, her sister would be leaving to begin her new life with the Steward. His home was now in the mountains of Emyn Arnen—a stark contrast to the plains of Rohan.

"My lady?"

Gúthwyn glanced up to see Tun approaching her. Éowyn and Éomer were already making their way back to Meduseld; she had not followed them, lost in her thoughts. Only a handful of people were left. One of them was Gandalf the White. "Hello, Tun," she said quietly, smiling sadly at him.

He was silent for a moment, and then said, "I am sorry." Glancing at Théoden's barrow, he added, "You have heard this before, but your uncle was a great man; and even in the days of his enchantment he was loved by the people."

A lump formed in her throat. "I know," she whispered, regretting bitterly that she had ever listened to Haldor. For a long time, she did not speak.

"Would you like to go back inside?" Tun asked after awhile. They were the only ones beside Théoden's grave; Gandalf was wandering along the other mounds, paying no heed to their conversation.

"Yes," she said at length, sighing. She almost felt more inclined to stay out here than to go to the Golden Hall, where her sister would be marrying Borogor's killer. But she owed it to Éowyn to be there; she owed it to her brother. He had just been crowned the king of Rohan upon their return to the city three days ago, and the celebration was partly in his honor.

Frowning suddenly, she asked, "Where are the children?" They had been standing next to Cobryn at the funeral, she knew, but now neither of them were in sight.

"They have likely gone back inside," Tun answered, though her instinctive worries were only slightly quelled. She had been keeping a close eye on them ever since they entered Edoras, and to her disconcertment had noticed that Éomer was right: Many of the people's eyes had widened when they had seen her with them, and there was a great deal of curious whispering whenever she walked by with Hammel or Haiweth in tow. The mystery was soon solved, as all of the Riders knew that the children were not hers, but she had been uneasy about such attention.

Tun held his arm out to her then, and after a second's hesitation she took it. As they walked up the path towards the Golden Hall, he inquired, "Are you looking forward to the feast? I do not know when I have seen Éowyn more happy."

Gúthwyn's stomach turned over at the mention of what was soon to befall her sister, but she tried not to show it in her response. "I am glad for her," she replied, and in truth she was: Éowyn deserved a blissful life, and Faramir would clearly do anything to ensure his future wife's pleasure. "Though I will miss her greatly when she leaves."

"Aye," Tun replied, his voice more serious than before. "Will you visit her often?"

"As much as I can," Gúthwyn answered, though she did not think she would be traveling to Ithilien frequently. The place held too many bad memories for her, and as much as she was loath to abandon her sister she simply could not face what Faramir had done in its woods.

"If my duties can permit it, I would be glad to accompany you," Tun offered, causing a small smile to cross her face.

"We shall see if my brother is generous enough," she said, grinning in amusement at the idea. Éomer's heart would likely fail him—or his hand reach for his sword—if she asked to travel to Ithilien with her champion: Tun was trustworthy, and a close friend, but it would not excuse the fact that he was a man.

They came up the steps then. Tun let go of her arm and held one of the doors open for her, smiling as she thanked him. "You are too kind," she murmured, just before she stepped inside.

"For you, my lady, I receive your remark with pride," he responded, and a blush crept over her cheeks.


	9. Repentance

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Nine:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Nine**

As she entered the Golden Hall, several Riders were finishing setting up the tables. Her brother and sister were nowhere in sight; she presumed that they were getting ready for the evening, as well as the children. They had been given a room adjacent to hers.

Tun left to help the Riders in their preparations, and she moved through the hall, searching for Cobryn or Lebryn. She found the former as he came into the throne room via the passage that led to her chambers. "Gúthwyn," he said upon seeing her, "Éowyn asked for me to give you a message, as she is currently being detained by the process of being fussed over by what looked like every single woman servant your brother has employed."

A brief smile came to Gúthwyn's face. Both she had her sister had informed the maids in their childhood years that they did not wish to be dressed by others, as they were perfectly capable of doing so themselves. Yet today was a special occasion, and she expected that no less than five servants had their attentions fixed on the White Lady. She did not know how her sister could tolerate them.

"In any case," Cobryn continued, "she has a specific wish for what you will wear tonight, and says that it will mean much to her if you take the suggestion to heart."

Gúthwyn had a feeling that she knew what the suggestion was. "What would she have me wear, then?" she asked, twisting her fingers as she waited for the answer.

In response, Cobryn held out from behind his back a folded white dress. It was not the one that she had refused to wear in Minas Tirith; it was different, she could see, but not too dissimilar.

A sigh escaped her as she took the gown from her friend. "I suppose I cannot deny such an innocent request," she murmured wryly.

"She is right, you know," Cobryn said, raising his eyebrows at her attitude. "It is about time you wore something other than grey."

Gúthwyn made a face at him. "Thank you for taking my side," she muttered.

Cobryn gave a sardonic bow. "At your service," he replied.

She rolled her eyes, and then asked, "Are the children in their room?" When he nodded, she said, "Then I shall go change. I will see you at the feast; would you be interested in dancing?"

He laughed. "I think I will leave the honor to your champion," he replied. "One does not dance when they can barely walk—though I noticed that Legolas managed to convince you to do so at Arwen's coronation."

She blushed at the underlying question in his words, and quickly said, "I could not say no to such an earnest offer. He felt bad for me, I think; Hammel saying that I had been sitting on the bench all night probably did not help matters."

As a matter of fact, she had hardly spoken to Legolas for several days: He had been in the company of the Mirkwood Elves, a group whom she was careful to avoid even more than Faramir. Only a few words had they exchanged since their arrival in Rohan. He had politely inquired about her health during the welcoming feast, and she had given him an equally courteous response, but he had seen how her hands had trembled and mercifully did not press her further.

Taking her leave of Cobryn, she walked down the passageway to her room, pausing just outside of Éowyn's chambers. Bursts of giggles and chattering came from inside, though she only heard her sister's voice once or twice. Deciding to visit later, when the feast was about to begin and the maids hopefully engaged in their own preparations, she headed further down the hall and stuck her head through the children's doorway.

"Gúthwyn!" Haiweth exclaimed upon seeing her. She was only half-dressed, and her hair spilled in wild curls down her shoulders. Hammel was all set to go, but he seemed to have given up on trying to get his sister ready, and was instead reading his book.

"Haiweth, what have you been doing?" Gúthwyn inquired laughingly, going over to the dresser and picking up a small hairbrush. "Come here and let me fix your hair."

The girl obliged, and they sat together on the bed as Gúthwyn began running the brush through the tangled locks.

"How is your book, Hammel?" Gúthwyn asked as she worked.

He looked up reluctantly. "It is good," he replied. "What does affable mean?" There was a slight stumble over the word.

Smiling, Gúthwyn answered, "It means likeable, or pleasant."

"Ah." He returned to the book.

Gúthwyn finished combing Haiweth's hair, and tied it back with some ribbons. When she had pronounced it satisfactory, she focused her attentions on the girl's clothing. The dress she was currently wearing had been stained by dirt—she was not quite sure how it had gotten there—and the buttons were all in the wrong places. "All right, Haiweth," she began, "I think it is time we change into something nicer. This is an important day for my sister."

Hammel glanced over at her, though he said nothing. Haiweth, on the other hand, protested, "But I _like_ this dress!"

"And it was a very pretty dress until you got dirt all over it," Gúthwyn said, resisting the urge to laugh. "Will you help me pick out a better one?"

Haiweth consented, although she remained miffed that she could not wear what she pleased. Together they chose a dress that would not show evidence of staining, and one that spun out when Haiweth twirled in it. A broad grin of happiness came to Gúthwyn's face as she watched the child showing off her gown, going so far as to declare that it was the most beautiful one in the world.

The time of feasting was drawing nearer, and Gúthwyn soon had to retreat to her own chambers so that she might change. With some trepidation, she unfolded the dress Éowyn had given her. It was a simple design, but had a plunging neckline that at first made her raise her eyebrows. Then she ruefully resigned herself to the fact that, since there was little to reveal, she had no real excuse not to wear it.

She removed her clothes and slipped the dress on, relieved that there were only a few laces she needed to do up. When it was on she glanced into the mirror. To her surprise, the white did not look as glaringly out of place on her as she had thought. If she had not felt so unclean in it, she might have been delighted to wear the garment; yet she could not help but shiver. She had no right to wear this gown.

_It is only for one night,_ she reminded herself as she began brushing her hair. _Then you can be rid of it._

After only a few strokes, however, she began to feel trapped in the room, and decided to go speak with Éowyn. Hastily setting down the brush, wincing as her fingers slipped and sent it falling with a clatter to the ground, she exited her chambers. She made her way down the hall to Éowyn's room, and was grateful to hear that there were fewer voices from inside. Evidently some of the younger women had gone to prepare for the feast.

She knocked softly. "Come in," her sister called.

Entering the room, Gúthwyn saw Éowyn standing before the mirror, wearing the most beautiful dress she had ever seen in her entire life. At first glance it appeared to be white, but if she tilted her head a certain way she noticed the blue and golden threads that had been woven into it. And whenever Éowyn moved, the color changed from a snow-covered field to the sparkling ocean to the dazzling afternoon sun, all in the blink of an eye. Éomer had had it made in Dol Amroth, but Gúthwyn had not seen it until today.

Éowyn caught sight of her in the mirror, and turned around with a delighted grin spreading across her face. "I am so glad you came!" she cried, positively glowing in excitement.

Gúthwyn stepped closer and embraced her sister, careful not to step on the train of the dress. "You look wonderful," she whispered fervently. "Faramir will not be able to take his eyes off of you."

She could feel the happiness radiating from Éowyn as she said this, and there was only the slightest twinge in her heart. But she would not let it ruin the occasion.

Pulling back a little, Éowyn briefly examined her. "Thank you for wearing the dress," she said, smiling. "I do not know what your worries were—Cwene, do you not think white is well suited for her?" she asked, turning to the older servant who had been attending her.

"Indeed, my lady, I think you have never looked better," Cwene told her fervently, and dropped a brief curtsy. "I will give you two some time to yourselves. But do not linger too long! The feast is about to begin!"

With that, she departed from the room. Éowyn turned to Gúthwyn, and she saw that there was some anxiety in her sister's expression as well as anticipation.

"Do not worry," Gúthwyn told her softly, though her own hands were not still. "You will make an excellent wife—Faramir has hardly been able to believe his luck the past few months."

Éowyn fiddled with the hem of her dress. "I am a little nervous," she admitted. "I have heard the talk of the maids…"

Gúthwyn paled a little, but quickly said, "Faramir will not hurt you." _Not the way Haldor did to me,_ she added silently, shivering at the thought of the Elf.

"I am sorry," Éowyn said, a flush coming to her cheeks as she realized what was troubling Gúthwyn. "It was not my intent to—"

"It is fine," Gúthwyn replied brusquely, though she had to take several breaths before she trusted herself to speak without a wavering voice. "Shall we go to the feast?"

"Aye," Éowyn agreed readily, and took one last look in the mirror, pushing a stray strand of hair back into place.

They left the room, pausing only to retrieve Hammel and Haiweth. Together they entered the throne room; it was already beginning to fill with people. In addition to the numerous tables laid out in the hall, there was an enormous one at the head of the room for all of the nobility. Éomer's ornately carved seat was in the center, facing his subjects, along with two chairs on either side that were intended for her and Éowyn. A fourth one was there, as well, presumably for Faramir.

And speaking of the Steward… Gúthwyn's hold on Haiweth instinctively tightened as the man came over to them. "Éowyn," he murmured, staring in amazement at her and hardly able to speak. "You are beautiful."

"Was I not before?" Éowyn asked teasingly, giving him a swift kiss on his now pink cheek.

"Yes, Faramir, was she not?"

They turned to see Éomer joining them, dressed in a carefully embroidered green tunic and leggings. He wore his crown, something that still seemed out of place on him. Indeed, after long meetings with his council he often looked burdened by its weight, and it was by no means a simple coronet.

Now Gúthwyn watched as Faramir flushed under the laughing gazes of his future wife and her brother, stumbling for the right words to remedy the situation. "What I believe Faramir meant to say," she began quietly, "is that Éowyn's beauty tonight far surpasses even that which she has with her all the time, but it so dumbfounded him that he could not express his feelings adequately."

For a moment, Faramir looked surprised that she had come to his defense. Then he smiled, as did Éowyn. "Thank you, my lady," he said to her, inclining his head. "That is precisely the answer."

Gúthwyn met Éomer's eyes as he urged them all to take their seats. As they did so, Gúthwyn relieved to see that the children had a small bench beside her, he leaned close and muttered, "Has Faramir won your approval yet?"

"I have told him not to ask for it," Gúthwyn replied stiffly. She cast a glance over at her sister and the Steward. They were speaking softly together, unaware of the conversation that was taking place just a foot away.

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "What concerns you about him? Is it something that I should know?"

"It is no—" She abruptly cut off her answer as the delegation from Dol Amroth sat down in front of them. Éomer did not pursue the topic, as he was exchanging glad greetings with Prince Imrahil, his sons, and of course the lady Lothíriel, whom was now directly across from Gúthwyn.

"Gúthwyn," Lothíriel said then, smiling at her, "what a pleasure to see you again. Have you had the opportunity of being introduced to my brothers?" She gestured to the three tall men sitting beside her. Hastily, Éomund's daughter tried to remember their names, but was only partially sure of success.

"I have not," she answered at length, somewhat taken aback by Lothíriel's friendliness. Perhaps she had been over-imagining things at Aragorn and Arwen's wedding?

"We must amend that, then," one of the brothers—the older one, Elphir, she believed—said, smiling at her. She liked his manner instantly.

Lothíriel glanced at him. "That is Elphir," she informed Gúthwyn. "The next eldest is Erchirion, and the youngest is Amrothos."

"I am hardly young," Amrothos said scathingly, seated on Lothíriel's right, though there was a hint of amusement in his dark eyes. His gaze frequently darted back to Gúthwyn. "I am twenty-five; you, dear sister, are only twenty."

"Then you and I are of the same age," Gúthwyn told Lothíriel.

She raised her eyebrows. "Are we? I confess I had thought you younger."

Now it was Elphir's turn to look at his sister. When she did not elaborate, he said to Gúthwyn, "I beg you to take that as a compliment. Indeed, I have seen you on a few occasions, though I must say that you have rarely looked finer."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied, blushing a little. "Though unfortunately I cannot respond in kind, as I spent little time around the White Tower and so did not see you after your arrival."

"I wish Éomer had introduced us sooner," Elphir replied, smiling kindly.

When Gúthwyn next looked at Lothíriel, her eyes were glittering coldly; yet when their gazes met, she resumed her conversation with Amrothos. Wondering at this, Gúthwyn nevertheless continued speaking with Elphir, finding his company very enjoyable. They were soon interrupted, however, by Éomer standing up to address the now full hall.

"My friends," he said, gazing around at everyone. "I thank you all for coming here. Tonight, the Golden Hall is filled with many a glad face, mine not the least."

Éowyn arose beside him, and in her hands she bore the ceremonial cup. With a small bow she presented it to Éomer, who accepted it gratefully. Gúthwyn smiled as two men—one a minstrel, the other a scribe of Gondor—got to their feet. With the attention of everyone upon them, they listed all the kings of Rohan from Eorl the Young to Théoden. As the last was cried out to the people, Éomer drank the whole of the cup.

"Let the goblets and tankards be filled!" Éowyn declared, and several servants immediately filtered through the room. Gúthwyn thanked the one who poured her ale for her, though she had little intention of drinking it.

When everyone had their mead, they stood as one, and in strong voices exclaimed, "Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!" Though he had in fact assumed the duties of Théoden's former position already, it was the people's first official recognition of him. Gúthwyn smiled gladly to see him so exalted, and when their eyes met she knew he was just as happy as she was.

When her brother sat down, the feast commenced. He was immediately engaged in a happy debate with Prince Imrahil on the best methods to train a horse; likewise, Lothíriel was talking to Erchirion and Amrothos about some of their trips to the sea. Gúthwyn's attention, which she had directed at Elphir in hopes of continuing their conversation, was distracted by Haiweth immediately asking her what she should eat. Not used to having so many choices, the little girl was often at a loss for what to do in these situations.

"How about some vegetables?" Gúthwyn suggested, helping her serve some onto her plate. "They are good for you."

Haiweth glared suspiciously at them. Repressing a laugh, Gúthwyn gave her some of the mashed potatoes and glanced over at Hammel to see how he was doing. Her eyes widened in surprise as she saw that he was talking quietly to Legolas. Most of the Elves had been seated at the ends of the table, but as the Prince of Mirkwood, he was closer to the host. Lady Galadriel and the Lords Elrond and Celeborn were also nearby; much to the delight of Samwise Gamgee, who was sitting not too far away with the other Hobbits.

Interested to know what the boy and Legolas were talking about, she listened carefully as she took a small piece of bread and put it on her plate.

"Cobryn said that you are talented with a bow," Hammel was saying, studying Legolas with a close scrutiny that she thought was making the Elf uncomfortable.

"There are some who do," Legolas admitted, smiling as he caught her eye. "And I like to flatter myself in thinking that I am."

"Nonsense!" declared his friend, leaning over to speak with Hammel. The boy stiffened slightly, and inched closer to Haiweth. "I do not remember a single archery contest that Legolas has not won. His practice schedule borders on obsession, and I do not doubt that if he were not hindered by his duties he would be training day and night."

"I hardly consider myself _obsessed_," Legolas replied dryly, seeming rather embarrassed at the attention. In spite of herself, she grinned. "And I do seem to recall a certain incident where you, my friend, were most glad that I had devoted such hours to my bow."

Halfway through a drink, the Elf choked, and when he at last recovered he sent such a glare to the prince that it resembled an untamed stallion's.

"Gúthwyn," Elphir said then, and she looked at him with a smile on her face, "forgive me for asking what may seem like a foolish question, but are the children yours?"

Lothíriel's eyes flicked, very slowly, onto her.

"I have been taking care of them," Gúthwyn replied, "in light of their parents'"—she lowered her voice, so Haiweth could not hear—"deaths."

"My apologies," Elphir said quickly, flushing a little. "I did not mean to bring up such memories."

"You are not the first to ask the question," Gúthwyn answered kindly. "I think I have earned the disapproval of many a Gondorian noble for it, alas. Do you have any children?"

Elphir and Lothíriel exchanged terse glances, and the brother's eyes clouded with pain. "Aye," he at last said, drinking deeply from his mug. "A son named Alphros. He is in Dol Amroth now, for he is not yet old enough for such a journey."

Not understanding what was wrong, Gúthwyn asked in the awkward silence that followed, "Is your wife here? I would like to meet her."

"She died in childbirth," Elphir said tightly. Lothíriel took his hand.

Horrified that she had, even unintentionally, brought up such a topic, Gúthwyn stammered, "I-I am so sorry. I had no idea—please, forgive me. I cannot even imagine…" She trailed off, not knowing what to say.

"No," Lothíriel replied, her voice very quiet and very cold; "you cannot."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened at this, and even Elphir seemed surprised. "Lothíriel," he said, "Gúthwyn did not know any better."

The silence that fell was ended when Éomer turned his attention to Lothíriel, inquiring about how she had found her visit to his homeland. Elphir and Gúthwyn were left awkwardly staring at their plates.

"Do you like Rohan, my lord?" she finally asked, hoping to move the conversation onto safer ground.

He seemed eager to seize this topic, and for the rest of the feast they spoke about their lands. She learned much of the customs and people of Dol Amroth; Elphir was astonished that she had never seen the sea before, and spent several minutes describing its beauty to her. "You really must travel to my country sometime," he said when he was done, still looking amazed that she had not yet done so. "Trust me, there is nothing more breathtaking than the sight of the waves crashing onto the beaches."

"Perhaps one day I will go and see it for myself," Gúthwyn said. Éomer was close friends with Prince Imrahil; if her brother decided to visit Dol Amroth, she would take up Elphir's suggestion and accompany him.

Soon, all had finished with their food—Gúthwyn a little nauseous after having some of the potatoes in addition to her bread—and were ready to begin dancing. Many of Gondor's musicians had gone to Rohan with their King, delighted to have the chance to display their skill.

Yet before they began playing, however, the part of the night's festivities that Gúthwyn had been dreading arrived. Éomer got to his feet, and with a happy glance at Éowyn and Faramir began, "Now is the funeral feast of Théoden the King; but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I would do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn my sister."

Gúthwyn's stomach twisted violently, and it took all of her willpower to keep her face free of that which was destroying her from within. She must have succeeded, for Éomer's eyes passed over her without noticing anything amiss as he said, "Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as have never been gathered in this hall! Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien, asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing. Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all."

As he spoke, Éowyn and Faramir rose. The happiness and utter bliss upon her sister's face as she set her hand in the Steward's, and bowed her head so that Éomer could place on it a circlet of woven flowers, tore at Gúthwyn's heart. Faramir had never looked gladder than in this moment. It suddenly pained her to think of how selfish she had been over the past two months. She had avoided her own kin, her own flesh and blood, simply because she could not bear to be around the person who made them content and whole.

For all the pain she now knew she had caused her sister, Gúthwyn felt like crying as she lifted her cup in a toast to them. She did not drink, as the others did, thinking that she would not be able to swallow in her desolation. Éowyn was going to leave in a few weeks—only half a month from now—and what would she have to say for it? That she spent Éowyn's last days in Rohan evading her and her husband?

"Thus," Éomer said, making himself heard over the thunderous clapping and her own misery pounding within her head, "is the friendship of the Mark and Gondor bound with a new bond, and the more do I rejoice."

"No niggard are you, Éomer," Aragorn said, his voice as if from a great distance though he was only sitting a few seats away from her, "to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm!"

Éowyn looked at Aragorn and spoke for a brief moment with him, but Gúthwyn did not hear what they said. And when the musicians started playing, and much of the table left to partake in the dancing, she sat there, hardly able to breathe. She cursed herself for her folly, for driving away her sister, for being the cause of this estrangement between the two of them. If only she had cared more about Éowyn's happiness, rather than the ghosts of her past, then the empty hole within her would not be as gaping as it was now.

"Gúthwyn?" Haiweth's plaintive voice reached her amidst her dreary thoughts, and she looked at the child. "What is wrong?"

This time, tears did come to her eyes, and she swiftly wiped them away. "Nothing," she said. "Excuse me for a minute."

Hammel's gaze fixed on her, but she could not even speak to him. Getting to her feet, she hastily wended her way around the dancers and through the crowds of people intent on getting moderately to heavily drunk. She was careful to avoid letting Faramir or Éowyn see her, as they were dancing peacefully together, and she did not want to spoil their joy as she had done so often. Several people called out to her as she went, but she merely nodded and forced a smile on her face before continuing.

At last, at long last, she pushed open the doors of the Golden Hall, and was relieved to see that there was no one outside. Wrapping her arms around herself, though it was the middle of summer and not cold, she paced up and down the landing. _How could I have not realized how self-centered I have been behaving?_ she wondered in bitter amazement, blinking away the tears as they formed in her eyes.

She did not know what it was about Éowyn at last marrying Faramir that had invoked this change in her. She did not know what it was about the sight of her sister in that moment that had struck her, that had made her see the foolishness of her actions towards her. But she was now painfully aware that, no matter what the Steward had done in the past, he loved Éowyn with all his heart, and she returned his passions equally. And for Gúthwyn to stand in the way of such happiness…

An hour went by. She could not bring herself to return to the festivities; she did not want to risk her emotions or history with Faramir betraying her. For the first time in her life, she hoped that Éowyn would not notice her absence. Nor did she want anyone else to figure out that she had disappeared: The report would undoubtedly wind its way back to her sister.

Yet such luck was not to be hers. She was sitting on the landing, her feet hanging over the edge and her arms wrapped around her knees, when the doors to Meduseld opened once more. Glancing up, she saw with a jolt of her heart that Faramir had come outside. It did not take him long to find her; when he did, she hastily got to her feet. He approached her, the expression on his face unreadable.

"Faramir," she said when he was standing before her. The lump in her throat was back again. "Faramir, I…"

He held up a hand to silence her, and she was quelled. "Gúthwyn," he began, "there is something I need to know—be it a justification for your treatment of me, or merely the satisfaction of my own curiosity, I cannot say which. But for me to understand you, I need to know this."

She nodded, swallowing her nerves, at this point willing to do whatever was necessary to repair the damage that she had done.

"Who was he to you?"

Gúthwyn's eyes closed for a moment. "He was everything," she said when she at last opened them, trembling at the thought of giving even the barest account to him. "H-He was my… my best friend. If I told you half of what he had done for me…"

Not once did Faramir's gaze leave her. "My first day in Mordor," she continued; "my first full day of training with the men, he was the one who carried me back to the tent. H-He was the second-in-command of the troops, and told them that if they harmed the children or I in the slightest, he would kill them. And… and he was the one who taught me how to use a sword, who taught me almost everything that I know today."

Faramir was silent as he listened to her, and for this she was grateful. It would have been too much to answer further questions; too much to explain in greater detail all that Borogor had helped her with. "Five days before we left on the scouting trip, the one where your men… where your men ambushed us, Hammel was taken with a fever. I stayed by his side for two nights without sleep, and when Haiweth caught it I could not care for her."

"And he did?" Faramir asked quietly.

She nodded, feeling the familiar burning sensation in the corners of her eyes. "And then he tended to me when I became sick. I remember nothing from the days of my illness besides his face. But I recovered in time to go on the trip; and there was something different about him, something that I did not realize until it was too late."

Here she paused, and had to struggle against the tears threatening to overwhelm her before she could go any further. "When you ambushed us… do you recall seeing him and I speaking with each other?"

Faramir nodded. "That was why I gave the signal," he replied, his throat sounding constricted; "because all his attention was on you, and his hands—" He stopped, as if just realizing something. "They were holding yours."

Something wet slid down her face. "I found out later that he was in the middle of asking me to marry him," she murmured, making no move to dry her eyes. "I did not know how much I was in love with him until he died."

Faramir's eyes widened in horror, and for a full minute he froze, staring at her as silent tears coursed down her cheeks. "Gúthwyn, I-I am so—"

"Please," she cut him off, shaking her head frantically, "do not apologize. You have made my sister happy. That is enough for me. And… and there is something else."

With the exception of making love to Haldor, she told him of how Borogor's death had enabled her to leave Mordor, reunite with her family, and at last recover the children. Through all of this he did not, could not, say a word.

At length, she drew a shaky breath. "I am not saying that I am glad Borogor died," she spoke, looking straight into his regret-filled eyes. "I am saying that I do not want you to feel guilty for giving me a chance to live."

Faramir looked at her. "And neither would he," she whispered.

Then she turned away, and wiping the tears from her cheeks walked back inside.


	10. Promises and Farewells

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ten:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Ten**

It was yet another night of little sleep for Gúthwyn. Whenever she managed to doze off, nightmares of Borogor dying would awaken her. Adding to this was the knowledge that, just a few rooms away from her, Éowyn and Faramir were consummating their marriage. She could not help but tremble at the thought of Borogor's killer making love to her sister, even though she had made peace with him earlier that night.

At length, she was unable to endure the shadows in her room any longer, nor suffer the tormented recollections that ceaselessly plagued her. Getting out of bed, shivering as she lowered the blankets to receive the cool morning air, she immediately crossed the room to her dresser. After some searching, she was able to find a heavy enough robe to wrap around her; under this, she put on Borogor's cloak.

For a moment, she debated on whether or not to take Beregil's book with her, but she eventually decided that reading it would only make her more miserable. So she left the room without it, and passed through the hallway quietly. The one stop she made was to check on Hammel and Haiweth. They were sleeping peacefully, their rest undisturbed. As always, she envied them for this—terrifying dreams haunted her nearly every night, some far worse than others.

She entered the throne room, and here tread even more carefully: Most of the guests had laid their pallets in the hall. Elphir was among them, and she smiled briefly. After she had returned to the feast, being in little mood to celebrate, he had been determined to lift her spirits, and had insisted on dancing with her twice (such persistency only surpassed by Tun, who had requested her hand five times). Even her injuries would not deter him, as, he pointed out, they were recovering swiftly. He had been most kind to her, and she was glad to have his friendship, though she had a feeling that Lothíriel's dislike of her—which she could not even begin to explain—had only increased because of it.

When she came to the doors and pushed them open, going cautiously so as not to disturb the men, the first thing she saw was the grey sky that preceded dawn. The air was cool, and already a light wind was blowing. Soon cold, yet not wanting to return to her bed, she edged further out onto the landing. Her heart froze, and then thudded frantically against her chest, when she saw none other than Legolas leaning against one of the pillars.

He glanced over as she stepped outside, and having nothing better to do Gúthwyn made her way slowly towards him. "Good morning," he greeted her as she approached. She nodded in response, now shivering from more than the chill. Crossing her arms over herself, she gazed out across the lands. A soft smile came to her face as she did so, for there were precious few sights more appeasing to her than the rolling fields of the Mark.

"They are beautiful," she murmured, more to herself than to Legolas.

"Have you often seen the sun rising over these lands?" the Elf inquired, his eyes meeting hers.

Smiling at the irony, she replied, "No, not once. Can you imagine? Even as a child, I was usually fast asleep at such an hour as this."

Legolas grinned. "Aye; my father used to lament that I was never on time to the council meetings, which were early in the morning."

She glanced at him, trying to imagine what he was like as a child. "I cannot picture you so young," she at last said, flushing slightly.

"It is well you cannot," he answered, now looking at the mountains with a faint smile on his face. "According to my father, I was quite difficult to manage."

Gúthwyn raised her eyebrows: It was something they had in common. "That sounds like something my uncle would say," she murmured, feeling a twinge of sadness as she thought of Théoden. Her gaze traveled to the burial mounds, singling out the one she knew he was buried under. As almost an afterthought, she added, "But he was always kind to me, and I wish I had not denied him the love he deserved." Her arms wrapped even more tightly around her stomach.

Legolas looked at her and said quietly, "He knew that you cared for him deeply."

Not willing to tell him how Haldor had manipulated her mind, she answered, "Yet I cannot take back all the things I said to him. It was bitterness… Bitterness that I should not have given into."

"Seven years is time enough to form a grudge," Legolas told her, stepping closer. She blinked, and found herself wishing that the gap between them was wider.

Seeing her sudden distress, he moved back somewhat. "My apologies," he said courteously.

Letting out a shaky breath, Gúthwyn responded, "No, I-I am sorry. I just did not… did not get a good night's sleep."

She fell into silence then, and for a long time neither of them spoke. Yet then Legolas started, and he exclaimed, "There it is!"

At first confused, she glanced up. Then she saw a glimmer of red peering over the mountains, bringing forth a pale light. Her eyes widened in wonder: Never before had she seen the likes of this. Gradually the red grew brighter, and bolder, soon changing its color to a fiery orange and then to a brilliant gold. Both she and Legolas were hushed as the sun rose over Edoras, bringing with it the start of a new day. The goose bumps on her arms dissipated, replaced by a warmth that made her heavy robe unnecessary. Longing to take it off, she was repressed by the fact that she was only wearing Borogor's cloak and a thin nightgown beneath it.

She sighed softly and shifted, drawing Legolas' attention. "I should change," she explained, gesturing towards her clothes. "Th-Thank you for putting up with my company."

"It was my pleasure," Legolas replied, nodding at her. Hesitantly she returned the gesture, and then she went back into Meduseld. Already she could hear the sounds of her people getting ready for the day.

Mercifully, few inside the Golden Hall had awoken yet. Only a few of the older councilors, who had been wisely cautious with their mead, were roaming about, speaking in hushed whispers to each other. She bid good morning to them all as she passed, smiling when they responded to her. Not one of them so much as blinked at her odd attire, fully used to such quirks in the King's sisters.

Going down the hallway to her chambers, Gúthwyn saw Hammel making his way towards her. "Good morning," he said, pausing.

Ruffling his hair, she answered, "The same to you, Hammel. Is Haiweth still asleep?"

"Yes," he told her, looking somewhat puzzled. "I thought you would be also."

"And I would, if my mind had given me any rest last night," she said, yawning even as she spoke. "I suppose I will see you for breakfast, then?"

He nodded, and they went their separate ways. Though she did not doubt the boy had been truthful in his account of Haiweth, she still checked on the girl before entering her own room. She was sleeping peacefully, one thumb in her mouth and her fist clenched firmly around the blanket. For a moment, Gúthwyn watched her contentedly, hardly able to believe that she was so lucky to have both of the children with her. Then she went over to Haiweth and gently removed her thumb from her mouth, taking care not to wake her, and with that left the room.

Once she had closed the door of her own chambers, she changed into one of her numerous grey dresses, relieved to not have to wear the white gown anymore. She had gotten several compliments last night on her appearance, yet each of them had made her feel more unclean than the previous one. At length, after adorning a pair of soft leather boots and running her brush through her hair a few times, she left the room and came out into the great hall.

A few more people had awoken since she had last been there, and one of them was Elphir. He smiled upon seeing her, though Gúthwyn could not go over to him: A servant had come over to her, asking if she would like something to eat.

"No, thank you," she replied, inwardly cringing at the thought of food at this hour. She generally ate only a small lunch and dinner, incapable of tolerating much more.

Elflede looked concerned. "My lady, surely you must be hungry? A bowl of porridge would do you good—no offense meant, my lady, but you are too thin."

"Really," Gúthwyn said, shaking her head emphatically, "thank you kindly for your offer, though I am not given to eat much in the morning. No offense was taken. Will you instead see that Hammel is well fed?"

The serving woman had no choice but to bow and assure her lady that her wishes would be carried out. Thanking her once more, Gúthwyn took a moment to glance around the room. She found Hammel sitting at one of the tables, playing with a small knife he had been given and went over to him. "You will be having breakfast shortly," she informed him, and watched as he twirled the dull blade with his fingers. Wincing, she said, "Hammel, be careful with that."

Without a word he set it back down on the table. "I want to learn how to ride a horse," he announced, though not impetuously as Haiweth was wont to do. "May I?"

"Of course!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, smiling. "I should think it a shame if no one taught you. When we next have free time, I shall let you practice with Heorot. He is a good animal, and will not bring any harm to you."

A pleased expression crossed Hammel's face, though he tried to keep it in check. "What about today?" he asked.

"I am sorry, but things are too busy," she said regretfully. "With the exception of Éowyn, Faramir, and some of the Steward's men, the guests will be leaving later this afternoon."

Hammel raised his eyebrows. "They have only been here for a few days," he pointed out.

"Aye, but there are still many duties that need to be attended to in their own realms," she replied, also wishing that most of them—with the exception of the Elves—could have stayed longer. "And I believe that the Halflings desire to get to their home as soon as possible, since they have been gone from it for almost a year. King Elessar, Gandalf, and the Elves will be escorting them as far as they might; Legolas and Gimli as well."

"The Dwarf?" Hammel asked, narrowing his eyes as he tried to remember.

"The very one," she confirmed, and reminded herself to speak with Gimli later. She had barely talked to him the past month: Their paths had simply not crossed. Which was unfortunate, as he still owed her an account of one or other of his ancestor's deeds in the Battle of the Five Armies—she was not quite sure what it was about, as all of the Dwarven battles seemed to blur in her mind.

Elflede came over to them then, bearing a bowl of steaming porridge for Hammel. The boy thanked her, as did Gúthwyn.

In response, Elflede asked worriedly, "My lady, are you sure you do not want anything?"

"I am sure," Gúthwyn replied. "Thank you for your concern." Just the smell of Hammel's breakfast was making her stomach queasy.

Elflede bowed and departed, though Gúthwyn was not spared from Hammel's glance. "Why do you never eat anything?" he inquired bluntly.

She gave a forced laugh and said, "I eat lunch and dinner, do I not? Yet I am not hungry now. Please, eat your meal."

He gave her another long look, but all the same dug his spoon into the porridge and began eating. As he did, Gúthwyn let her eyes wander around the throne room. Most, if not all, of the visitors were up, talking quietly with each other or sitting down for something to eat. She saw Gimli rising, and would have waved him over but for the fact that he soon engaged himself in a hearty conversation with Frodo and Sam.

Yet she was not lacking for company, with Hammel beside her; and shortly after the boy started eating, Cobryn made his way over to them. "Good morning," he said, no small amount of surprise on his face as he looked at Gúthwyn. "My friend, I must confess I did not expect to see you until six hours later!"

"Be quiet," she said good-naturedly, though a sigh escaped her lips. "It is certainly not my fault that I am not in bed. I could not get to sleep."

Cobryn settled onto the bench across her, relaxing comfortably. "Anything you wish to speak about?"

She shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes.

Éomer soon entered the hall, and was immediately pounced upon by a swarm of councilors. Gúthwyn grinned in amusement as her brother was given what looked to be a foot-high stack of papers that he needed to glance over. Yet he shook them off quickly, and made the customary rounds amongst his guests. She watched him bow deeply to the lady Lothíriel, and marked the blush that spread across her cheeks. She saw, also, the barely-concealed grins of Imrahil's sons.

Her opportunity to question him came when he left the Dol Amroth delegation and went towards her. "Sister, are you ill?" he asked, faking anxiety. "Or am I ill, and seeing things?"

Rolling her eyes, she replied, "Nay, Éomer, unfortunately you are not seeing things. But there is something that _I_ observed. Sit down."

Raising his eyebrows at her audacity, Éomer obliged, clearly wondering what was coming next.

"Tell me, brother," she began, leaning close: "Why do Lothíriel's brothers smirk every time you speak with her? There is nothing amiss about your appearance this morning, but they seem as if they can hardly contain their laughter."

A flush came to Éomer's face, and when he spoke his words were defensive. "I am none the wiser than you," he answered. Across the table, Cobryn's eyes narrowed slightly.

Gúthwyn studied Éomer closely, wondering if she was right in suspecting a strong attachment on her brother's part to the princess of Dol Amroth. He certainly sought her company out frequently, and they had noticeably enjoyed each other at the party; though everyone had been in high spirits then, and he spent equal amounts of time with Prince Imrahil.

"Why do you look at me like that?" Éomer inquired suspiciously, taking her from her thoughts.

"Nothing at all, dear brother," Gúthwyn said, smiling mischievously. "Will you be eating breakfast with us?"

"Somehow I think your answer was not very truthful," Éomer grumbled, but nodded all the same. "I shall; then, I have a meeting with the Marshals."

"Already?" Gúthwyn inquired, surprised. "You have just returned from Gondor—should you not be resting?"

Éomer shook his head. "There is no time for that now," he said. "Though Sauron has been vanquished, there are still groups of Orcs left on our borders, and we will have to organize _éoreds_ to hunt them down. I am hoping to have this done swiftly, so that their terror will soon be lifted from the distant villages."

"Do not work too hard," Gúthwyn cautioned, though she was also eager for her people to be safe. "I would hate to see you waste away."

"There is little danger of that," he told her, smiling reassuringly. "What are your plans for the morning?"

She shrugged, not altogether sure of what to do with herself. "I might go to the stables and groom Heorot," she at length said. "What time will the guests be leaving?"

"You dislike them that much?" Éomer returned, his words amused. "If that is the case, then you will be pleased to learn that they shall depart shortly after noon."

"I did not mean it like _that_," Gúthwyn said, laughing a little. "I have much enjoyed their stay here; indeed, I wish they could remain longer, though I know that cannot be." She ruffled the hair on Hammel's head, thinking back to their earlier conversation.

"You are not alone in that regard," Éomer murmured, and she noticed that his eyes darted to Lothíriel as he spoke.

* * *

There was only an hour left in the morning when Gúthwyn slipped into the stables, holding a few sugar cubes that she would be giving Heorot. Making her way into his stall, she greeted him affectionately and presented him with the treat. It was soon gone from her hand, the culprit chewing happily.

"I have missed you, my friend," she said, stroking his mane. "I do not believe we have seen each other since our return!"

He, of course, did not respond, though he flicked his tail once or twice. Gúthwyn set about grooming him, delighting in the task. As with all of her people, she held her horse in high esteem, and was always anxious to ensure that he was in good health. For several minutes, gradually changing into half an hour, she occupied herself in this manner. On numerous occasions the stableboys paused in their duties to talk to her, and she spoke with them cheerily.

She was debating whether or not to braid Heorot's mane when the doors to the stables swung open and Elphir walked in. A smile crossed her face, though at first he did not notice her. The Dol Amroth horses were at the opposite end of the stables, their lodgings readily provided by the king's good will. It was because of this that none of her chats with the stableboys were long: Such a large addition of animals kept them exceedingly busy.

Elphir was halfway down the aisle when she called out to him. He turned around, confused, and then his eyes fell on her and widened. "My lady," he said, drawing near to Heorot's stall and folding his arms over the door. "I did not expect to see you here."

"I have not visited Heorot for a long time," she explained, "and I daresay it would be a shame if I had others groom my own horse for me."

"My sister does not think it so," Elphir responded, chuckling. "She took after Amrothos in that regard. He would much rather ride the horse than care for it."

"A pity," Gúthwyn answered, petting Heorot. "They may have missed excellent companions."

He nodded. "Though I admit that your people far surpass us in their regard for their horses."

She smiled, knowing that it was true. "And yet few of us can lay claim to having seen the Sea."

A faraway expression came into his eyes. "That I find a great shame," he murmured, sighing. "There is nothing more beautiful than the domain of Ulmo." Ulmo was the Vala who guarded all the waters of Arda; Gúthwyn was not much familiar with him beyond that.

"Then I regret to inform you, my lord, that there are many here who would say otherwise," she said to Elphir, her eyes sparkling. "Have you yet seen all of the city?"

"Alas, I have not," Elphir said, and she arranged her expression into one of mock horror.

"That must be changed, my lord. If you had told my brother earlier, I am sure he would have found someone to show you around—but now it is too late."

"When I next return," Elphir began, "which may be soon, if my father and Éomer have much business to discuss, I would be honored if you could correct the blasphemy I seem to have committed."

Gúthwyn giggled, and promised him that she would. "In the meantime, shall we return to the Golden Hall? I am sure there are many preparations to be taken care of, and Éomer will likely wonder where we have gone."

Elphir agreed to this, and she bid farewell to Heorot before they left the stables. They chatted easily on the way to Meduseld, and before long had opened its doors. He left her then to go speak with his brothers; Gúthwyn went over to where she now saw Éowyn and Haiweth talking together. The former could barely get a word in edgewise as the young girl rambled on endlessly.

"Now, little one," Gúthwyn admonished as she drew nearer, "I think you have just about worn out my sister's ears!"

Haiweth pouted, but at that moment she spotted Hammel and scampered over to him, leaving the two women alone.

Gúthwyn glanced at her sister, noting the rosy pink tint of her cheeks, and the way she was glowing with an indescribable happiness. "Where is Lord Faramir?" she asked hesitantly, relieved that she did not yet have to see the Steward.

"He is with Éomer," Éowyn replied, blushing. For the first time in her recollection, Gúthwyn thought her sister seemed giddy.

And it suddenly struck her that she did not mind that the source was Faramir, for she liked the way her sister smiled.

* * *

"Farewell, my lady," Merry said with a bow. Gúthwyn grinned to see him still proudly wearing his Rohirric armor, and replied:

"Luckily not for too long, I deem. You are still a soldier of my people, and King Éomer may yet recall you for duty."

"To which I would be most pleased to oblige," Merry answered, beaming. "I hope we shall see each other soon."

"As do I," Gúthwyn responded, and with a smile and a wave sent him off. He joined Pippin beside their small horses; she had already bid the rest of the Hobbits farewell, and apologized once more to Frodo and Sam. They had both assured her that they held no grudges against her, something that she was vastly relieved to hear.

A sigh escaped her as she surveyed the scene before her. She was standing near the stables, surrounded by an unusual crowd: Nobles, kings, Elves, Hobbits, a wizard, and a Dwarf. It was time for the departure of Éomer's guests, such an assortment of which had never occupied Edoras.

Just then, she felt a tug on her dress, and looked down to see Haiweth gazing up at her. Knowing what it was the child wanted, Gúthwyn picked her up, shifting her over to her left hip in case she needed to shake hands with someone. "Tired already, little one?" she inquired gently, making her way towards the delegates from Dol Amroth.

In response, Haiweth yawned. "No, I'm not," she insisted.

Smiling, Gúthwyn asked, "Where is your brother?"

Haiweth could barely speak through the second yawn. "With C-C-Cobryn."

Knowing that the boy was in good hands, Gúthwyn did not worry for him. Instead she went closer to the Dol Amroth nobles, intending to say goodbye to them. Prince Imrahil saw her first.

"My lady Gúthwyn," he said, bowing. Beside him were his sons and daughter, the latter of which had narrowed her eyes so slightly that the action was almost imperceptible.

Gúthwyn inclined her head, choosing not to attempt a curtsy with Haiweth in her arms. "I wish you a safe journey, your highness."

Imrahil smiled, and then laughed as Haiweth waved cheerily at him. Elphir grinned, as well, though Lothíriel did not seem to find it so amusing.

"How old is this child?" the princess now inquired, arching a delicate eyebrow. "She is most charming."

"She just turned six recently," Gúthwyn answered; Haiweth held out five dirty fingers.

"There seems to be a discrepancy," Imrahil said gravely, though he winked at Gúthwyn.

"Perhaps when—or if—we return, such a grievance will be rectified," Elphir suggested, his eyes sparkling in amusement. "And until then, Lady Gúthwyn, farewell! I hope we shall meet again soon."

"As do I," Gúthwyn said with a smile. Erchirion and Amrothos echoed their brother's sentiments, and found them likewise returned. When those goodbyes were finished, Lothíriel glanced at her.

"I do regret that we did not get a chance to see each other more," the princess said, her expression genuine. Gúthwyn blinked, wondering if Lothíriel had for some reason overcome her misgivings.

"Aye," she at length responded: "my brother quite enjoyed your company, and in my opinion that has placed you in high esteem."

This time when Lothíriel smiled, her eyes did as well. "And Éomer praised you so often that I marvel he did not insist on us spending more time together."

The two of them parted on good terms, though Gúthwyn was still puzzled about what the princess truly thought of her. Half the time she seemed to look down on her in disdain; the other half, she was perfectly friendly. _Well, it matters little now,_ she thought, dismissing her concerns as she searched the crowded grounds for Éomer or Éowyn.

It was then that she was hailed by Gimli. "Hello, Gimli," she greeted the Dwarf as he approached her.

"My lady," Gimli said, and bowed. "Though I do not wish to bid farewell to your people, my heart sings to know that I shall soon be marveling at the splendor of Aglarond. That you have such magnificent caves and use them only for the hiding of refugees—" He shook his head, at a loss to describe how foolish he thought they were. Gúthwyn giggled, knowing that his words were not mean-spirited.

"What will you be doing after you see them?" she inquired, setting Haiweth down when the girl started squirming.

"I will return to my home," Gimli replied, "though I may not be there for long. King Elessar, your brother, and I had a meeting a couple of weeks ago, and there are tentative negotiations for my people to aid in the rebuilding of Helm's Deep and the gates of Minas Tirith."

"Excellent!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, delighted at the chance to see him again. She knew, also, that the Dwarves were the best craftsmen for such jobs. With their help, no army would ever be able to breach the defenses of either place.

Gimli grinned, and then focused on something beyond her shoulder. "Ah, Master Legolas!" he said.

Gúthwyn turned around to see Legolas making his way through the crowd towards them. Haiweth's grip on her leg tightened.

"Well, good friend, are you ready to see such wonders as you have never seen in your long life?" Gimli asked merrily, his beard quivering as he spoke.

"We already walked through them briefly," Legolas reminded him, though he smiled. "Shall I inquire how eager you are to stroll under the boughs of the Fangorn Forest, or should I leave you to your thoughts of dull rocks and damp caves?"

"Dull rocks!" Gimli cried indignantly. "Damp caves! My friend, even an Elf cannot speak so foolishly!"

"Pardon me," Legolas replied dryly. Irritated, Gimli strode off, muttering something about insolent Elves as he went. Legolas chuckled, and then turned to Gúthwyn and Haiweth. "Farewell, Gúthwyn," he said quietly.

She flushed under his gaze, but returned the goodbye. "W-Will you return here at all?"

"If all goes well, and my father permits me to start a colony in Ithilien, I will be traveling this way soon," Legolas answered, studying her carefully to see her reaction. Then he lowered his voice. "But if the idea of me visiting troubles you, I will not impose myself upon your brother's hospitality."

His consideration touched her, and made her feel ashamed that she was still afraid of him. "I-I do not mind," she hastily told him. "I… I would like to see you again."

A soft smile came over Legolas' face. "Thank you, my lady," he said, and bowed. Gúthwyn nodded, struggling to gain control over the queasy sensation in her stomach.

As Legolas straightened, he glanced at Haiweth, who had been watching their conversation quietly. When she found herself at the center of attention, she clutched Gúthwyn's leg so tightly that Éomund's daughter did not think she would be able to prize herself from the grasp. "Goodbye, Haiweth," Legolas said cautiously.

Haiweth did not respond, and instead stuck her thumb in her mouth. Leaning down, Gúthwyn gently pulled it out. "What do we say, Haiweth?" she asked.

"Goodbye," Haiweth whispered, her voice so soft that they could barely hear it.

Legolas' face tightened. "I am sorry," Gúthwyn said apologetically.

"It is fine," Legolas responded. "I am the one who should apologize."

For a long time she looked at him. "What he did was not your fault," she at length spoke, trembling a little.

"But I hold myself responsible for all the distress I have caused you," Legolas replied, and when his eyes met hers she could not repress a shiver.

Yet even as they said a last goodbye, and he turned away from her, Gúthwyn watched him go and thought that she wanted to learn to be friends with him. She wanted to learn to forget Haldor.


	11. Returning to the Sword

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eleven:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eleven**

Gúthwyn flung open her dresser, searching for garments that she had not worn for months: Leggings and a tunic. Excitement raced through her as she went, and a broad smile was on her face. Today she was finally going to start training again. The last time she had wielded a sword was at the battle of the Pelennor Fields. Now it was mid-August, and she was tired of spending her days confined to grey dresses.

Truth be told, she had admittedly not suffered for a lengthy stretch of time—the guests had just left Meduseld yesterday—but after spending seven years in more comfortable garb, she was not used to wearing gowns, and thought that they were terribly constricting. Adding to her happiness was simply the fact that she would be fighting in less than an hour's time. She had already informed Éomer of her intent, and though he had not been inclined to allow her to practice with the men, at length he had relented.

Slipping her shirt and pants on quickly, she went to a chest at the foot of her bed and opened it. Eagerly she withdrew her sword. "Framwine, my friend, it has been too long," she murmured, and the hilt gleamed in response.

Leaving her chambers, she went into the throne room. Outside the Golden Hall, the sun was blazing high over Rohan. Éomer and his councilors were having lunch together as she entered. Though it had not been her intent to disturb them, many glanced up from their papers and saw her. Smiles tugged at the corners of their lips. A flush spread over Éomer's cheeks, but he determinedly avoided saying anything.

Resisting the urge to laugh, Gúthwyn surveyed the rest of the hall, searching for someone to sit with. The faintest grimace washed over her when she saw Éowyn and Faramir together, speaking softly and holding hands. Even from a distance, her sister's happiness was unmistakable. They had been married for just over a day; she appeared as if she felt herself to be the luckiest woman in the world. Faramir, likewise, seemed hardly able to believe his good fortune whenever he so much as looked at his wife.

Gúthwyn's unrest deepened when she saw that there was no one else in the hall whom she could reasonably go sit next to and avoid the Steward. Gritting her teeth, trying to console herself with thoughts of what lay ahead, she made her way towards the couple. They did not notice her until she was within a few feet of the table.

"Do you mind if I sit?" she inquired, meeting Faramir's eyes briefly before focusing her attention on her sister.

"Of course not," Éowyn replied, and then grinned as she noticed what her sister was wearing. "So you won the argument?"

Gúthwyn smirked as she sat down across from them. She and Éomer had been engaged in the debate for nearly half an hour; Éowyn and Faramir had gone to bed before its conclusion. "I would have gone out anyway, even if I had not."

Faramir remained silent. Their encounters were always awkward, and very often neither of them addressed the other in Éowyn's presence.

"I desire to see you practice, sister," Éowyn now said, smiling. "Pray do not tell Éomer this, but I was hoping he would give in to you." Then she turned to the Steward. "Faramir, do you have any interest in accompanying me to the training grounds this afternoon?"

"I would not want to distract Gúthwyn with my observing her," Faramir said quietly.

"I have trained under the eyes of many, Lord Faramir," Gúthwyn replied, looking at him. "Yours will not matter." Even as she said this, she knew just how aware of Faramir's presence she would be; yet would it affect her as Legolas' had?

Her musings were interrupted by Éowyn saying, "Then that settles it! Gúthwyn, Éomer seems to be done with his meeting. Maybe you can convince him to come? He has been cooped up in here far too long."

Gúthwyn agreed to this, more so when she glanced over at her brother. He had his elbows on the table and was running his hands through his hair as he talked to Aldor, the only one of his councilors still with him. She could tell from the expression on his face that he was not pleased about something.

Getting to her feet, she crossed the room and went over to him, pausing just before their table. When both men looked up and saw her, she curtsied, and said, "Have I come at a bad time?"

"No, not at all," Aldor answered as he stood up. "I actually have some duties I need to attend to. Éomer, I will see you at the meeting tonight. Farewell, my lady."

With that he departed, and Gúthwyn wasted no further time. Sitting across from her brother, she inquired, "What is wrong?"

His dark eyes met hers. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because, Éomer, you look as if you would happily murder anyone who dares to cross your path. I hope I have not done so."

He groaned, yawning as he did so; Gúthwyn could not help but smile at the resulting noise, and received a glare in response. "It is a combination of things," Éomer said at length. "Already they have begun to talk of whom I shall marry."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened. "But you have only been king for a few days!"

"And yet amidst talk of repairing Helm's Deep and rooting out the Orcs in the Westfold, they still find time to discuss such matters," Éomer replied. "I had not even thought about finding a wife until Aldhelm mentioned the topic."

In spite of herself, Gúthwyn asked curiously, "Were any woman's names suggested? Or do you have someone in mind?"

"Gúthwyn," Éomer said exasperatedly, "I have far more important things to do with my time than to look for a woman who will both make me happy and provide an heir for the kingdom! And no, no one was suggested, because I refused to discuss the idea with them. There are still many things that need to be attended to before I think of wedding."

She felt relieved at this. Two marriages in such a short span of time—Éowyn to Faramir, Éomer to whomever his councilors thought best—would be difficult to bear gracefully. And she wanted her brother to have the opportunity to at least develop a close friendship with whomever his wife was to be, as it would lead to long years of misery if he did not.

"Well," she said at length, "I have come to see if I can persuade you to join me in training. Éowyn and Faramir will be there as well, though I think they are watching rather than joining. You have been doing nothing interesting all day, it seems; will you not come?"

"I still do not like the idea of you going," Éomer said, looking askance at her. "The days in which you wrestled with the boys are long past."

"I will not be _wrestling,_" Gúthwyn retorted, keeping her voice as dignified as possible. "Besides, we have already discussed this. And now I am afraid I will have to challenge you to a duel, brother—that, at the least, you cannot refuse me."

Éomer's eyebrows shot up so far that they nearly disappeared beneath his hair. "A duel?" he repeated. "Gúthwyn, you have barely recovered from your injuries."

"I will be fine," she said, brushing away the accusation. "I can walk, can I not? So do you accept, or are you too afraid?"

A smirk came to her face as she watched her brother frown, knowing fully well what was going on in his head. "I fear your being hurt more than your blade," he responded, narrowing his eyes at her. "For that, to me, seems inevitable."

She pretended to be hurt. "So you doubt my skill with a sword? I am wounded; thus you have done the very thing you promised not to do. Éomer, I will not take no for an answer, cower though you might from me." Allowing an authoritative tone to enter her voice, she added, "I will be most displeased if I do not see you with a sword in your hands in ten minutes. You know where the men train—or have you forgotten already?"

All this she was saying to goad him, and it worked. Sending her a fierce glare, he stood up. "Have it your way, sister," he said. "You will regret your words, of that I can assure you."

Gúthwyn merely smiled at him, and rose to her feet as well. "I am glad we settled that," she said. Without another word she turned away from him and went back to Éowyn and Faramir. They had been watching her, amusement gracing the former's features.

"Is he coming?" Éowyn inquired the instant she had sat down. "It seems to me as if you succeeded only in irking him even farther."

"I challenged him to a duel," Gúthwyn said happily. "His ego would not allow him to back down."

Éowyn's eyes widened very slightly. "What of your ankle and ribs?" she wanted to know. "I did not think they were fully—"

"They are healed," Gúthwyn replied airily, dismissing her sister's concerns. She was not going to let anyone or anything keep her from doing that which she loved. The past few days especially she had been longing for the feel of a blade in her hand; to know that it was only minutes away was making her quiver in excitement.

Deciding not to wait anymore, she stood. "Let us go now," she urged Éowyn and Faramir. "Éomer will meet us outside."

Smiling at her sister's impatience, Éowyn rose, keeping the Steward's hand in hers. The three of them made their way towards the doors, but before they had reached them they were opened. Cobryn halted before them, Hammel alongside him and Haiweth holding his hand.

"Good afternoon," Gúthwyn bade them cheerily. Haiweth returned the greeting, though both Cobryn and Hammel's eyes lingered on her clothing.

"Are you going to train?" Cobryn asked her, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course I am," she answered. "Would you like to accompany us?"

"I would!" Haiweth piped up. Hammel nodded silently.

"Then I shall go as well," Cobryn decided, then bowed to Faramir and Éowyn. "My lord and lady," he said.

"Cobryn," Faramir acknowledged; Éowyn nodded.

With all the formalities done with—Gúthwyn blushed a little when she realized that she had observed few, if any, in the past couple of weeks—they headed down the stairs and arrived on the streets of Edoras. They were already filled with the sights and sounds of people going about their daily business. Many of them had been up for several hours at this point.

The walk down to the armory was slow, as they were engaged in numerous conversations with various people. Indeed, were she not so eager to reach the training grounds, Gúthwyn would have lingered much longer. Yet they eventually managed to get to the lower reaches of the city, where a large space had been cleared for the men to train. Gúthwyn heard them well before she saw them: The unmistakable grunts, shouts, and clanging metal of warriors practicing.

As they reached the grounds, Gúthwyn's eyes scanned them swiftly. Most of the men were skirmishing with a partner, and too focused to notice their appearance, though she was able to see Tun and Lebryn. They were sparring with each other, neither having the clear upper hand.

"My lady?"

Startled, Gúthwyn glanced over to see Gamling approaching her, panting slightly. He had evidently just finished a duel of his own. "Are you intending to practice?" he inquired, looking at her outfit.

"Yes," she replied, and quickly turned to check the streets for a sign of Éomer. There were none. Facing Gamling once more, she asked, "Would you care to spar with me? I am in need of a partner."

He nodded, though reservedly. "But do I have your word that you will not continue if your injuries trouble you? The last thing I want is for Éomer to think I am harming his sister."

"Do not worry," Gúthwyn said, and withdrew her sword. She was looking around for a place to put the sheathe when Cobryn, who had been observing some of the other men, said:  
"Here, I will hold it."

"Thank you," she said as she gave it to him. Over his shoulder, she could see Hammel and Haiweth settling themselves on a small rock. Éowyn and Faramir were watching some of the warriors.

In the midst of all the activity, she and Gamling found an open space in which to practice. "How long has it been since you last wielded a sword?" he asked her, looking rather dubious. He was well aware that women were by no means untalented, having seen enough evidence in Éowyn's prowess, but Gúthwyn could tell that he was still concerned about accidentally hurting her.

"The battle of the Pelennor Fields," she responded, twirling Framwine casually in the air and debating whether or not to expend much energy in the upcoming skirmish.

Gamling's eyes widened. "My lady, I think you should reconsider—"

Gúthwyn held up her sword. "Are you ready?"

He sighed resignedly, and bowed in the tradition of warriors. Gúthwyn did likewise; then they began circling each other. Impatient to start fighting, she feinted to his left. He lunged the opposite way and sent a quick stroke to her shoulder, one that she just as swiftly blocked and countered. Adrenaline began rushing through her as she and Gamling sparred for several seconds, gradually stretching into a minute. Now that she was using Framwine once more, she could hardly believe that they had been parted for so long.

Unfortunately for her, Gamling was not taxing her nearly enough as she would have liked. He was too cautious of her injuries to put much strength in his attacks; even in the early stages of her training with Borogor, she could have diverted them without great trouble. Two minutes after their duel began, nothing was happening. Picking up instantly on this weakness and deciding to use it to her advantage, she started slowing down, just enough so that he would think her tired. Her ploy worked: He, too, reduced his speed, and went even more carefully with his strikes.

Suddenly, her action so unexpected that Gamling had no means of preventing it, she launched into a whirlwind of blows and jabs. In less than twenty seconds she had gotten under his guard, knocking his blade far off to the side, and with great satisfaction placed the tip of Framwine at his throat. Instantly the captain stopped, staring at her in astonishment. Slowly, he lowered his sword. "Yield," he said, his breathing heavy.

As Gúthwyn removed Framwine from his neck, she became aware that several of the men were watching them in open-mouthed surprise. Tun and Lebryn were among them.

"By the Valar," Gamling said, now chuckling; "Éomer did not lie when he warned me to beware of you! I must admit I did not anticipate that ending."

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to respond, but then someone's voice sounded from behind them. "Are you saying that you suspected me of not being truthful, my friend?"

They turned to see Éomer standing there, a smile on his face and his sword in his hands. "Did I not tell you, Gamling," he continued, "never to underestimate my sisters?"

"My apologies, my lady," Gamling said, a faint flush coloring his skin as he nodded at her.

"Do not trouble yourself," Gúthwyn replied, a broad grin of excitement stretching across her features. Now, more than ever, she was ready to fight Éomer. "That being said, brother," she addressed him, "I trust you will not go easy on me because of my injuries?"

"Nay, now I will be wary of whatever tricks you might seek to unhand me with," Éomer replied, smirking at Gamling. "I fear you have caused a certain captain great embarrassment today."

"Hardly, for my methods were less than honorable," Gúthwyn answered, smiling apologetically at Gamling. "And he was not trying very hard, either."

"I am guilty on that account," Gamling confessed. Then he gave a small bow to both of them, and said, "Éomer, I wish you better luck than myself." He went to find another partner, leaving the two siblings alone.

"Shall I wait until you have warmed up?" Gúthwyn questioned, glancing as she did so at Tun and smiling at him.

Éomer gave a few experimental swings of Gúthwinë, and then pronounced himself ready. Once more she held Framwine up, and like their owners the two blades eyed each other carefully. Gúthwyn's gaze was fixed on Éomer's; she knew that, unlike Gamling, her brother had no qualms about challenging her beyond the possibility of harming her.

For close to a minute they did not attack at all, merely sizing each other up and mentally evaluating their opponent's stances, but then Éomer went on the offensive. Almost swifter than she could blink, Gúthwinë was swinging towards her left arm. Barely managing to block it, she nevertheless countered quickly. Her brother's talent was phenomenal, and with her weak ankle and ribs she would not be able to triumph easily over him.

Their blades could hardly be seen as more than glittering blurs, glistening in the morning sun like the sweat that was soon forming on their faces. Neither of them could find a break in the other's guard, nor were they even close to being tired. Gúthwyn felt herself growing stronger with each parry, stronger with each quick step out of harm's way. Excitement was coursing through her veins rapidly, providing her with the strength she needed.

Nearly three minutes had gone by. Éomer was nowhere near getting through her defenses, yet she could not espy a breach in his. So she pushed herself harder and faster, forcing her brother to up the ante. Slowly but surely Éomer was moving backwards, successfully blocking each strike but losing ground in the process. Not once did she let up on him; she took a gleeful pleasure in having the mastery, and used it to fuel her energy.

Surprise was on Éomer's face as he found himself being driven back by his youngest sister. Gúthwyn knew that even he, who had heard of her training schedule in Mordor, had not expected her to be so proficient. However, she would not be able to win this skirmish without using much energy; already her ribs and ankles were beginning to protest.

It was then that Éomer turned to the offensive and lunged at her with a swift strike that would have cut through her head. She blocked it, but their swords caught and for a moment the two of them merely stood there, panting heavily.

"Well, sister," he breathed, his eyes wide, "you have certainly proved your skill to me."

"And I will say that of all I have fought, few have surpassed your talent," Gúthwyn replied with some difficulty, trying to regain her breath. Both of their faces were shining with sweat.

"Perhaps we should draw?" Éomer suggested, remembering her injuries.

Her eyes narrowed at the exact instant she flicked her wrists and employed the leverage to swing their swords downwards. Before the movement had been fully completed, she abruptly switched techniques and went for the victory, using his lowered arms to her advantage. Framwine leaped for Éomer's neck; however, at the same time, her brother recovered and sent Gúthwinë towards her stomach.

In the silence that followed, with Gúthwyn's sword on Éomer's throat and his at her side, neither of them moved.

"I supposed we are forced to," she at last said, raising an eyebrow. They both lowered their swords, and she became aware that nearly all the warriors had been watching them. Several of them were cheering; others seemed too surprised that she had drawn with their king to do anything.

"Good job," Éomer complimented her, prizing his hair from his face. Her own was still plastered to her skin.

"Thank you," she said, taking several deep breaths as she smiled. This was exactly where she wanted to be.

"Are you going to stay out longer?" Éomer questioned, and she nodded happily.

"I cannot imagine anything else I would rather do," she added.

He smirked. "Somehow, I did not think so."

With a nod at Éowyn and Faramir, who were nearby, he gave a small bow to her and left to go speak with the other men. Gúthwyn went over to her sister, still holding her sword. She had barely gotten five feet before Haiweth ran towards her and wrapped her arms around her waist.

"Did you win?" the girl asked, her voice muffled against Gúthwyn's stomach.

"We both did," Gúthwyn answered, bending down to kiss Haiweth's head. "Come, let us go see the others."

Haiweth agreed readily to this, and they made their way to Éowyn, Faramir, Cobryn, and Hammel.

"You have come a long way from the sticks," Cobryn commented, and she blushed.

"Indeed, I have," she said, smiling at him.

"For a moment, I thought our dear brother was in danger of being humiliated," Éowyn said, a mischievous grin on her face. "And I believe that he believed so, as well!"

"He has been put on too high a pedestal since becoming king," Gúthwyn teased. "A little embarrassment will do him good."

"More than a little, I deem," Faramir spoke, and Gúthwyn felt her smile hitch the tiniest bit.

"Well," she said carefully, "I am going to be out here for a few hours."

"I want to watch," Hammel responded quietly, and then looked at his sister. "What about you, Haiweth?"

Haiweth nodded eagerly, and then, peering around Gúthwyn's waist, cried, "Tun!"

Gúthwyn turned to see her champion approaching them. "Hello," she greeted him as he bowed.

"My lady," he said, his eyes sparkling, "would you be interested in sparring with me? I saw you with Éomer and now have little hope of victory, yet I still would try."

"Of course!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, and ruffled Haiweth's hair before disentangling herself from the girl. "Farewell," she bade the others, nodding at them.

Then she happily joined Tun, and it was not until the afternoon was drawing to a close that she at last put Framwine in his sheathe.

* * *

**A/N:** Just a quick note to everyone--I know this story seems like it's going nowhere fast. I promise you, things will start to pick up, especially when Éomer marries Lothíriel. Like the title "Recovery" suggests, these things do take time to build up. Trust me, I have everything all planned out! And yes, we will start getting into the issue of whom Gúthwyn's going to be marrying. Again, after Éomer marries Lothíriel. So, I apologize if things seem dull, but don't worry! 


	12. The Messenger

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twelve:  
**The character of Trelan appears here courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the creators of The Mellon Chronicles. They have graciously granted me permission to use him and another Elf, Raniean, in this story. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Twelve**

Slowly but surely, things began winding down after the War of the Ring. Under King Elessar's reign, the realm of Gondor grew in fairness to rival that of Númenor, the ancient kingdom of the Men of the West. Within a year, its population had returned back to its former strength, and there were smiles and laughter inside the walls of Minas Tirith. The Gondorians revered their king and queen, as they were kind and just to all the people.

Lord Aragorn remained close friends with King Éomer of Rohan. In the months following their coronations, they rode out on many campaigns together in order to rid their lands of Sauron's servants. The Orcs were outnumbered, weakened by the loss of their master, and soon fell to the banners of the White Tree and the White Horse. Much war did they see before there was peace, and it would be many years before their people could live without fear of invasion.

All this Gúthwyn learned of from messengers that came to the Golden Hall with their tidings. Éomer was often gone, and as a result she ruled the people in his stead, for lack of another closer relation to the king. In those months, she got her first taste of politics, and soon found them not at all to her liking. Only her desire to please the people made the long meetings even remotely tolerable. Very quickly, too, she also learned that though Éomer had given her the crown temporarily, she rarely made any decisions. Yet she did not mind this, and preferred to lean on the guidance of councilors such as Aldor and Cobryn.

For her brother had given Cobryn the honored position of being one of his advisors, recognizing swiftly the wit and cleverness of the man. At first, some were wont to be ill-disposed to Cobryn, as he was hardly twenty-six and not even from Rohan, but they soon understood why the choice had been made. As it turned out, he was extraordinarily skilled at diplomacy. He was extremely shrewd, able to perceive falsehood from honesty, and though he did not have much influence at first, many came to respect him for his devotion to a king not his own.

Gúthwyn was much relieved to have him by her side in the months following their return to Rohan, even more so as the alarming burdens of ruling a people were placed on her. Though the _éoreds _were frequently gone, and she did not need to manage them, she was still responsible for numerous other tasks. Whenever Éomer returned, it was as if a thousand bricks had been pulled off of her shoulders.

Mercifully, after nearly a year of hard fighting, her brother was able to be at home more often. She rejoiced in his company, as with Éowyn gone to Ithilien she missed having her siblings around her. And he was always happy to see her, especially when they found the time to practice on the training grounds together. It was there that he shared his thoughts with her, rather than at council meetings.

Soon, it became apparent that Rohan might not have to wait much longer for a queen. Éomer confided in her that he had been engaged in correspondence with Prince Imrahil, and had met with his daughter Lothíriel on several occasions. Her brother was clearly smitten with the princess, try though he might to conceal it; yet he would not step into a marriage unless he was confident that his feelings were returned.

Gúthwyn had had a chance to see for herself whether this was true when Prince Imrahil visited over the winter. Throughout his stay, Lothíriel and Éomer had hardly been seen apart from each other. She often lamented to Cobryn at how foolish and needlessly cautious her brother was being, if he did not see that Lothíriel harbored great affection for him. But on the other hand, she could imagine how Éomer might be unsure: The princess hardly showed emotion to anyone, and to see a genuine smile was a rarity. Only in the presence of her family or Éomer did Gúthwyn see such emotion from her.

The only thing that Éomund's daughter wondered at was Lothíriel's attitude towards her. The princess was perfectly cordial to her, if a little distant; yet she thought there was something off about their interactions. For the life of her, she could not describe it. There was nothing but civility in Lothíriel's tone whenever the two of them spoke, though at times Gúthwyn sensed what seemed to be disapproval in the older—by four months—woman's gaze. She mentioned this to Cobryn; he had also seen it, but if he had any misgivings of his own, he did not share them with her.

Whatever the case was, Gúthwyn was happy that Éomer had found someone he was content with, and she would have been very surprised if he and Lothíriel did not intend on marrying. Her brother was remarkably vague on the subject when questioned, saying only that he and Prince Imrahil were in discussions regarding the matter. However, he was quick to add that the said discussions were extremely tentative, and likely not to be resolved for a long time.

Gúthwyn was willing to wait, and indeed had more than enough to keep her occupied in the meantime. She soon fell into a daily routine, one that gave her great pleasure. Unless Éomer was away, she usually slept until noon—this made her a subject of friendly joking amongst her friends, though she chose to ignore them. Afterwards, she went down to the training grounds, spending several hours there with the men. The Riders quickly learned to abandon all their qualms about sparring with the king's sister; indeed, if they were to save their honor, such a decision was necessary. And before long, all of the awkwardness had dissipated, much to her gladness.

When it was time to put aside the sword, she alternated between riding with Hammel and educating Haiweth. Hammel continued his lessons with Cobryn, and was proving an extremely adept pupil. Yet his sister struggled. It took her several months before she was able to read, and Gúthwyn was still teaching her how to write. However, she had a natural talent for drawing, something that not even Hammel could explain. Gúthwyn did not mind: Her days brightened considerably whenever the girl gave her one of her illustrations.

After she had finished tutoring Haiweth or spending time with Hammel, she joined her brother and some of his councilors for dinner. These were actually rather interesting, as much of the talk revolved around affairs of various _éoreds_, and she loved to hear of their deeds. She no longer rode out to battle—her brother would not permit it, and had even gone so far once as to order Cobryn to keep her from leaving her room until the men had departed—but she still delighted to listen to the stories.

All in all, she was happier than she had been even in the days of her childhood. Yet that was not to say that she had escaped all troubles, or all the memories of her past. Frequent nightmares of Haldor haunted her so that she hardly got any sleep until the cold hours of dawn. She did not dare go to Éomer, for she did not want him to see her as weak; nor did she wish to disturb the rest which he so little got.

In addition, she still had not managed to regain her appetite. The mere sight of food made her quiver in nervousness, for she could not often say with certainty that she would not throw her meal up. Her diet consisted of merely bread and water. Occasionally, she was able to have a piece of cheese, but that was only on rare occasions. She soon became an expert on concealing how little food she had actually eaten at dinners, for she received enough worried remarks from the maids.

But life went on, and most of the time Gúthwyn could hardly believe how wonderful it was. Today was one of those instances. She and Tun were sparring together, their swords shining in the late afternoon sun and sweat forming a thin film on their brows. Having been taught by Éomer, her champion was extremely capable with a sword, though they both knew she had the mastery. Yet that did not prevent them from enjoying the skirmish to its fullest.

They had been fighting for several minutes when Tun lunged too far forward on a strike, simultaneously leaving his torso unguarded. Taking the opportunity, she leapt towards him, and before he realized his mistake she had placed the blunt tip of her sword on his chest. Immediately he stopped, looking sheepish. "That was foolish of me," he murmured, chuckling a little.

"The Valar know I have made that mistake enough," Gúthwyn replied, thinking with a slight pang of her lessons with Borogor. "Shall we go again?"

Tun considered, then smiled at her. "Would you care to go on a walk, my lady?" he asked.

Gúthwyn was slightly surprised, but nodded nonetheless. "I would love to," she answered happily. A break would probably do them good: His cheeks were red with heat, and she knew that her own body was sweaty.

The two of them sheathed their swords, and then he offered her his arm. Giggling, she accepted, and they soon left the training grounds. Tun inquired where she wanted to go, and after a moment's deliberation she decided on walking through the streets. She loved interacting with the people, and often felt as if she did not get enough opportunities to do so.

"My lady," Tun began as they made their way onto the main street, "how have you been this past month? I feel as if we have hardly seen each other."

Gúthwyn sighed, knowing that his words were true. Éomer had been away in the far south with King Elessar, negotiating—and sometimes fighting—with the Haradrim. He had just returned a few days ago, but for close to a season she had been in charge of the people. As a result, she had rarely gotten the chance to speak with her champion: What with trying to run a country, and simultaneously take care of the children, she simply did not have enough time.

"Let us just say that I am glad Éomer is back," she at length replied gratefully, and Tun chuckled.

"So am I," Tun said, and then quickly elucidated. "You make a wonderful queen, my lady, but I confess being selfish enough to prefer your company to your reign."

She laughed, swinging his hand gaily. "To that I take no offense," she responded. "Though I love my people, I have the greatest admiration for any who takes on the monstrous task of ruling them. It is near impossible! If it were not for Éomer's advisors, I think I might have just given up."

"It is a good thing you did not," Tun said with a smile.

They continued down the street in amiable silence until Gúthwyn was hailed by one of the older women.

"Good afternoon, Hildeth," she said cheerily, leading Tun over to where the woman was washing some clothes. "Can I help you?"

"Do not trouble yourself, child," Hildeth replied serenely, squeezing the excess water from a tunic. Unlike with Gandalf or one of the Gondorian healers, Gúthwyn did not feel at all uncomfortable to be called young by Hildeth—even though she was twenty-one. There was something about the woman that made it tolerable: Hildeth may have had a sharp tongue, but she displayed an affection for the king's sister that was not given lightly.

Hildeth let the cloth hang on the side of her washing bucket. She and Tun nodded at each other briefly before she said, "How have Hammel and Haiweth been?"

"Well, thank you," Gúthwyn answered, grinning at the thought of the children. "Haiweth is learning how to write, and Cobryn tells me that Hammel is very adept at his studies."

"Are you teaching Haiweth yourself?" Hildeth queried, taking another shirt and starting to soak it.

"Yes," Gúthwyn said. "I might not be the best instructor, but she is improving."

"Good, good," Hildeth murmured appraisingly. Then she glanced at Tun. "And what of you, young man?" she asked. "Have you been keeping busy?"

Looking slightly flustered, Tun answered, "Yes, ma'am, I have."

"Your uncle helped me carry some water from the well yesterday," Hildeth commented, wringing out the tunic. "Give him my thanks, will you, boy?"

Tun assured her that he would, and soon he and Gúthwyn left her to her washing. The sun was beginning to set over Edoras. Ordinarily, Éomund's daughter would have been inside, carrying out Haiweth's lessons, but she had given the girl a much-needed break. This left her with over an hour of free time before dinner was ready.

"Let us go up to the watchtower," Gúthwyn suggested, wanting to gaze out across the plains.

Tun smiled in agreement, and they began making their way towards the gates. After a word with the guard, Balman, they ascended the stairs that led to the top of the structure. A sigh of happiness escaped Gúthwyn as the fields of Rohan came into view, sprawling majestically before them.

"This is beautiful," she breathed, her eyes following the blazing path of the sun as it caressed the tip of a faraway mountain. In the days of her childhood, she had taken for granted such views. But after seven years of hardly ever seeing the sun, she found herself continually awed by such simple cycles of nature.

"Aye," Tun said, leaning against the rail and looking out over the lands. "It is a wondrous sight."

Gúthwyn smiled contentedly, and then realized that she still had her champion's hand in her own. "Sorry," she muttered, flushing as she let go. "You could have told me…"

"I did not mind," he said quietly. "It is an honor to hold your hand, my lady."

She could not help but giggle, though not unkindly. "Tun, you are too much! I do not know what I would do without you."

He chuckled at her mirth. "I am sure you would manage just fine," he replied.

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to laughingly protest, but at that moment his gaze fixed on something in the distant horizon. "Someone is coming," he said.

She squinted, though it was a few seconds before she was able to see what he was pointing at. At first merely a pinprick of light, the shape was soon revealed to be a dazzling white horse. Upon it was a fair rider, his golden hair streaming out behind him. Gúthwyn's heart froze as she saw that it was an Elf.

"By the Valar," she whispered, feeling all of the color drain from her face. It had been over a year since she had last seen an Elf. Over a year since she had last seen one of Haldor's kindred.

"Are you all right?" Tun asked, his eyes fixed on hers.

Taking several deep breaths, she nodded. "I-I am fine," she said, trying to keep herself calm. Meanwhile, the rider was drawing nearer. A wild thumping arose in her chest as she noticed that he wore much of the same garb that the delegation of Mirkwood had worn. "Shall… shall we go down to the gates?"

He studied her for another moment, and then acquiesced. Without another word they went back down the stairs. Tun spoke briefly with Balman, who shouted at some of the guards to open the gates. A third was sent up to the Golden Hall to alert Éomer of the visitor. Gúthwyn watched nervously as the gates slowly swung outward, and could not repress a small tremble. Her fear of the Elves had not grown any lesser with the absence of them.

She did not have to wait long before the rider passed through the gates, coming to a halt in front of Balman, who had stepped forward to greet him. For a moment, she frowned, for she thought the Elf looked familiar, but she could not place where she had seen him before.

"I come bearing a message from Prince Legolas of Mirkwood to Éomer King of Rohan," the Elf announced to Balman. Then he caught sight of her, and with a nod of his head said, "My lady."

She nodded back at him, and with a slight quiver in her voice asked, "Have I met you before?" Even as she spoke, she inched closer to Tun.

"Legolas introduced us in Gondor," the Elf replied. "My name is Trelan."

"Oh," she said, and gave him a small smile. "Well, I shall not hinder you any longer. My brother will see you."

He inclined his head. "Thank you, my lady."

With that he nudged his horse, and soon became a distant figure on the road. Gúthwyn watched him go, her mind racing furiously over his errand. A message from Legolas? What could that possibly be? Did the prince intend on staying here, as he had mentioned to her? She found her hands shaking at the very thought.

"Do you want to go to the Golden Hall?" Tun asked her then.

"S-Sure," she said, and remained close to him as they began making their way towards Meduseld. _Stop being so weak,_ she told herself sternly. _You are pathetic! Just the mere sight of an Elf is enough to make you afraid. And you do not even know what the message is!_

All the same, the walk to the Golden Hall seemed to take no time at all, and before long Tun was holding one of the doors open for her. She slipped inside, immediately spotting Trelan standing in front of her brother. Éomer was on his throne, looking down at the Elf, though she could read nothing of his expression. She drew closer to them, hoping to hear what was being said.

"And I trust the colony is going well?" Éomer inquired, his eyes briefly meeting hers. Gúthwyn's eyes widened at the mention of the colony. Legolas had been planning on starting one—with King Elessar's permission—in the northern reaches of Ithilien. She had heard little of him after his departure from Rohan, and so did not even know that the colony had been established.

"The first Elves relocated there just a month ago, my lord," Trelan replied. "Legolas has just finished negotiations with the king of Mirkwood, and is now prepared to join them as their leader. He plans on traveling through your lands, and has sent me to ask of you your permission."

"It is granted," Éomer answered. "In addition, tell him that he may rest here for a few nights, if he so desires."

At this, Gúthwyn's face paled, and her stomach turned over.

"Your invitation is most graciously received, my lord," Trelan said with a bow. "Indeed, Legolas had expressed hopes of being able to see you, though he says this also: He will not impose upon you and your family if the lady Gúthwyn does not wish it."

Every single pair of eyes in the hall swung towards Gúthwyn, who found herself at the undesirable center of attention. Éomer raised his eyebrows at her.

"Then what say you, sister?" he questioned, looking mildly puzzled at Legolas' message. She had not told him that Legolas was the complete duplicate of Haldor, exactly the same in everything but his actions.

Yet she could not very well say that now. "I-I have no reason not to welcome his company," she instead told her brother, stumbling slightly over the words.

Éomer nodded, and turned to Trelan. "We will be honored to have the Prince Legolas stay here."

Gúthwyn did not hear what the Elf said in response. Her mouth had suddenly turned dry, and all the blood in her head was pounding through her ears.


	13. The Coming of the Prince

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirteen:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Thirteen**

The night before Legolas' arrival in Rohan, Gúthwyn did not get any sleep. She lay awake, shivering, for hours, trying to calm herself down enough to at least close her eyes. Yet she could not: With every passing minute, the shadows between the candles in her room seemed to grow longer, and she did not dare let her guard down for fear of the Wargs coming after her. _No,_ she had to remind herself, _not the Wargs._

It was near dawn when she gave up, and left her bed. Trembling all the while, she managed to get dressed, hastily putting on her grey riding gown. She had not gone on a morning ride in years; now, she had no desire to be anywhere but on top of a horse. Where she would go, she had not decided, but anything was better than remaining in a dark and silent household.

Pulling on Borogor's cloak, she wrapped it tightly around herself and made her way out of her room. Her footsteps hardly made a sound on the floor; it was the rustling of her cloak, rather, that would have given her away if anyone had been up at this hour. Yet all was quiet, and she went down the passage and through the Golden Hall without detection. Opening the doors with as little noise as she possibly could, she slipped outside into the cool morning air.

"I must say I did not anticipate this surprise."

Gúthwyn recognized Cobryn's voice immediately, but she could not help whirling around in fright. "By the Valar, Cobryn," she murmured, placing her hand over her heart. He arched an eyebrow at her. "You caught me at unawares."

Her friend shifted on the bench so that he was leaning more comfortably against the wall. Moving his cane, he motioned for her to sit. She did so. "What has you up at this hour?" he asked, looking at her keenly. "The sun has not even risen."

"I could not sleep," she replied, sighing.

He remained silent, though she could tell he was waiting for her to continue. "It was too dark," she explained shortly, not wanting to talk about her fears—foolish as he would undoubtedly find them—concerning Legolas.

"What of your candles?" Cobryn inquired. He knew that she always had at least five of them in her room; how often had he blown them out in the afternoon whenever he woke her up?

Gúthwyn shrugged, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "They were burning… But there were too many shadows. It… It reminded me of the Wargs."

She did not meet his eyes as she said this, and instead rested her forehead on her knees. A curtain of dark hair fell over her arms and shielded him from his gaze.

"You still have not forgotten them?" he asked quietly, though there was no condescension in his tone.

A small shiver ran through her, and she willed herself to forget the two eyes that had burned her in the blackness. "I dream about them," she muttered.

Neither of them spoke for a time, each absorbed in their own thoughts. At length, Gúthwyn lifted her head and asked, "Do you always get up this early?" The sun was just barely beginning to illuminate the skies with pink and orange hues.

"I enjoy the mornings," he answered, smiling a little. "They are times I can use to think in peace."

Gúthwyn flushed. "I did not mean to disturb you," she said apologetically.

He shook his head. "Your company is welcome."

"What were you thinking about?" she questioned hesitantly, hoping he would not consider her prying.

"Lessons," Cobryn told her, without a sign of annoyance in his voice.

"For Hammel?"

"No," he said, and she glanced at him in confusion. "Last night, your brother asked me if I would be interested in teaching some of the boys around Hammel's age how to use a sword. Erkenbrand was already instructing most of them, but now that the repair of Helm's Deep is starting, he will be away for at least a year."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened. "Congratulations!" She had been aware of the vacant position, as Tun had informed her that his uncle was leaving Edoras within the month, but had not known who would become the children's teacher.

"Thank you," Cobryn said, a pleased expression on his face. "I am looking forward to making myself of service."

"You are already one of Éomer's councilors," Gúthwyn reminded him. "Somehow, I doubt you would have gotten the job if you were not useful."

"I owe your brother much for allowing me to remain here," Cobryn responded. "I can only hope to repay it by helping him and his people as much as I am able."

She rolled her eyes. "Do you plan on eating or sleeping, between the hours you spend as an advisor, tutoring Hammel, or instructing the children?"

He glanced at her sharply. "I am not the one who needs to worry about either of those. You, on the other hand…"

Gúthwyn did not want to listen to yet another person fretting about how thin she was, or how she often had dark circles beneath her eyes. "Come," she cut Cobryn off abruptly, standing up. "You should do something that is not a duty. Will you go riding with me?"

He knew as well as she did that she was avoiding the subject, but he respected her privacy and did not press the issue any further. "Of course," he instead replied, getting to his feet. She waited while he retrieved his cane, and then the two of them began making their way towards the stables.

As they walked, Gúthwyn asked, "How are Hammel's lessons going?"

Cobryn smiled. "Very well. It has been a couple of months since he last needed help pronouncing a word."

Gúthwyn was glad to hear this, as she knew that he had been reading diligently ever since his education began. She had also been teaching him and Haiweth the language of her people, as while many in Rohan spoke the Common Tongue, it was far more regular to converse in Rohirric. Both children were proving receptive to it, being at the perfect age for learning another language.

"He is an extraordinarily smart child," Cobryn added as they entered the stables. "He says little, but he knows far more than he lets on."

"Aye," Gúthwyn confirmed. "He hardly spoke more than ten words a day in Mordor. Haiweth was always the talkative one."

"How has she been?" Cobryn asked, going over to one of the horses that he sometimes used. Gúthwyn went into Heorot's stall, greeting him happily.

"Her lessons have not progressed as much as Hammel's," she answered as she began preparing for the ride. "But she can read well enough, and her writing has been improving. And I am pleased to say that she is not as terrible at geography as I was."

Cobryn laughed. "There are few who can manage that feat," he joked, and she made a face at him.

"Thank you for your kindness," she said scathingly, pretending to be offended. He gave a mock bow.

For a time they saddled up their horses in silence, until Cobryn broke it by querying, "Is she still drawing?"

Gúthwyn nodded. "She is getting better every day. I am glad that she has adjusted so well to her surroundings."

"She seems to have made lots of friends," Cobryn commented, and Gúthwyn chuckled. Nearly every day, Haiweth was in the company of several girls her age. If she had the time, Gúthwyn watched over them, occasionally joining in their play.

"I do not worry much for her," she replied, and then frowned slightly. "Though she gets nightmares sometimes."

"Hammel told me," Cobryn said, looking at her as he led his horse out of its stall. Gúthwyn did likewise with Heorot. "Do they happen frequently?"

"Once every month or so," she answered, holding Heorot's reins in her hands and starting to walk towards the door. "Not too often. I think Mordor had a different effect on her than it did on Hammel, even though she shows it little."

As she spoke, her hands twitched: The mention of the Black Land brought back a wave of terrible memories that she could hardly bear to recall. Forcing herself to continue, she said, "You have likely noticed, but she is less mature than the other girls her age."

Cobryn nodded. "She will grow out of it, though," he said confidently, and mounted his horse. "You cared for her excellently: She was hardly touched by the Shadow."

Gúthwyn shuddered as she sat on top of Heorot. "I thank the Valar for that," she said, her voice a mere whisper. Nudging her horse, she began guiding him down the path towards the city gates. Cobryn followed suit.

"Is the coming of Legolas what disturbed your rest last night?" he asked seriously, his eyes on her.

"W-Why would you think that?" she wondered nervously, pretending to be interested by the houses that they were passing.

"Hammel told me that he looks exactly like Haldor," Cobryn answered quietly, and she quickly turned her head away from him to conceal the paleness of her face.

"That is true," she managed to say, feeling her blood run cold at the countless memories that swarmed through her. "But I am fine." When she had at last worked up the courage to do so, she met his eyes evenly, and he nodded his head.

"My apologies," he said.

"I am fine," Gúthwyn repeated, and Heorot snorted.

* * *

There was no time that afternoon for Gúthwyn to train with the men. Instead, she spent her hours helping to prepare for the arrival of Legolas and his escort of Elves, all the while trying to quell the nausea that was rising within her. If unoccupied for even the shortest moment, she found that her hands would shake terrifically, and more than once her nervousness attracted the attention of several concerned maids.

"Really, my lady," Elflede said worriedly the third time this happened. "Are you sure you are feeling all right? You are dreadfully pale."

"And still not eating enough," Cwene grumbled as she aired out a blanket.

"I am fine," Gúthwyn insisted, ignoring the ominous swelling of her stomach. She hated the fact that she was so anxious about Legolas' imminent appearance. The two of them had been on cautious terms when they had last seen each other, but in his absence her fears had returned. The nightmares of Haldor were triumphing, surrounding her so that she felt as if she would suffocate.

There was a knock on the door then, and Cwene hurried to answer it. They had been using Éowyn's old chambers to make ready the linens, as the White Lady had not returned since her departure to Ithilien.

"My lord Éomer," Gúthwyn heard the maid murmur, and turned to see her brother standing in the doorway.

"There you are," he addressed her. Nodding briefly at the other five women, he continued, "Legolas should be here within an hour. I would have thought that you would be dressed by now."

Gúthwyn glanced down at her outfit, and saw that she was still wearing her riding gown. But even more alarming was the fact that the prince would be here so soon. "An hour?" she repeated, struggling to keep the tremble out of her voice. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," he answered, giving her a quizzical look. "Please tell me that you were planning on changing."

"Do not worry, brother," she sighed. "I will not embarrass you in front of our guests. Am I to wear a specific gown?"

Éomer regarded her for a moment. "How about one of your white dresses?" he asked at length.

"No," Gúthwyn said, more sharply than she had intended.

Her brother looked taken aback. "Why not?" he wanted to know, knitting his eyebrows. "Do they not fit you?"

"Are there any others that you think would suit me?" Gúthwyn responded, ignoring his question.

Cwene _tsk_ed in irritation. "My lord, she refuses to wear white, though it is the best color for her."

Gúthwyn gritted her teeth. "I have worn white before," she ground out.

"That was over a year ago, my lady," Elflede reminded her.

"I will just wear one of my grey dresses!" Gúthwyn cried at length, after all of the maids had chimed in to support Elflede and Cwene. "Legolas has seen me in leggings and a tunic far more often than he has in a gown. I doubt it matters!"

"Yes, it does," Éomer said, catching her by the arm as she made to storm past him. She glared, trying to wrench away, but he tightened his grip and did not let go. "For one thing," he elucidated, "you are at court now, not roaming the wilderness with the Fellowship. For another, I do not want anyone thinking you cannot afford a decent wardrobe."

"I am not wearing white," Gúthwyn said flatly.

"Then you are not wearing grey," Éomer retorted.

For a long time the two of them stood there; then, at length, Gúthwyn removed her arm from his grasp and stalked out of the room. Halfway down the passage, she felt ashamed that she had had an argument over something so foolish. In the grand scheme of things, did what dress she wore really matter so much?

_No,_ the sensible part of her mind replied. _So stop being childish and follow Éomer's orders._

Sighing, she pushed open the door of her chambers and went to the trunk at the foot of her bed, where she kept her fancier gowns. They were so few that she had decided to also use the space for her sword; needless to say, it was the latter she withdrew more often. But this time when she removed Framwine, it was only to lay him to the side in search of a suitable dress.

Over the past year, she had had a few nicer ones made for her, though she had always protested that Éomer should not spend his money so. Yet he had insisted, and she had not had the heart to refuse him. Now she chose one that had secretly delighted her: A simple green one with a dark brown waistband. She disliked the finery of some of the other gowns, for she felt she looked ridiculous in them.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Thinking it was Éomer, she straightened, only to see Elflede stick her head in the room. "Do you need help getting dressed, my lady?" she asked politely, though both of them knew fully well what the answer would be.

"No, thank you," Gúthwyn replied. Elflede nodded, and with a brief curtsy departed.

Quickly, Gúthwyn changed out of her riding dress and into the green gown. She could hear the muffled sounds of people scurrying around in the throne room, likely setting up the tables for the welcoming feast. Legolas would be staying for a week—her stomach turned over at the thought, but Éomer had been obstinate in extending his hospitality for a lengthy visit—and the maids were intent on impressing the Elven prince.

She found herself wishing that Éowyn were with her, if only for the comforting presence of a sister. The two of them had been keeping up a healthy correspondence (she had actually just received a letter from her that day), and she was glad to know that Éowyn was happy in Ithilien, but they had not seen each other for over a year. Gúthwyn could not say she was saddened by the absence of Faramir, though she missed her sister sorely.

Remembering with a small smile some of their childhood days, Gúthwyn picked up a brush and ran it through her hair. It was now nearly down to her waist, and she reminded herself to trim it later: It was interfering with her training. Haiweth had already had at least three haircuts, as her locks kept growing. Hammel had had a few, as well, though like her he was not terribly concerned about his appearance.

Putting down the brush, Gúthwyn decided to go and check on the children. Now that she had dressed, Éomer would not allow her to return to her work; yet she needed something to keep her mind off of what was to come. Leaving her chambers, she made her way down the passage and went into Hammel and Haiweth's room.

"Haiweth, what is wrong?" she immediately asked, looking concernedly at the girl. She was sitting on her bed and glaring at her dresser, her arms firmly crossed over her chest and a scowl on her mouth.

"She does not want to get dressed," Hammel replied dully, in a tone that suggested he had tried arguing with his sister several times already. Currently he was sprawled across his end of the bed, perusing the pages of a thick book.

Gúthwyn sat down beside Haiweth. "Why not?" she questioned gently.

"I do not want to," Haiweth said shortly.

Hesitating for a moment, Gúthwyn then inquired, "Do you not want to see Legolas?"

Hammel's eyes flicked onto her.

"Make him go away!" Haiweth cried, her voice rising to a near shriek.

Gúthwyn's eyes widened, instantly realizing that Haiweth had never truly come to terms with the fact that Legolas and Haldor were not the same person. Neither had she; yet she did not want the child to be afraid of Legolas, and have to go what she went through every time she saw him.

"Haiweth," she began quietly, putting her hand on the girl's shoulder, "Legolas is a good friend of mine. He is nothing like Haldor."

Haiweth refused to look at her. "I do not want to see him. He is mean."

"I promise you, little one, Legolas is not," Gúthwyn said, somehow managing to keep her hands from shaking. "He would not even think of being mean."

"How do you know?" Haiweth retorted, though her eyes were now carrying traces of doubt as well as stubbornness.

"Because he has always been kind to me," Gúthwyn replied soothingly, ignoring Hammel's raised eyebrows. "And he would like to be friends with you, too. It saddens him that you do not want to talk to him."

Haiweth remained silent, her stormy eyes fraught with indecision.

"He is nothing like Haldor," Gúthwyn repeated, a part of her wishing she could believe her own words. "You have naught to worry about."

"Promise?" Haiweth asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

"I promise," Gúthwyn said firmly, no trace of a waver in her speech.

At length, Haiweth grudgingly unfolded her arms. "Fine," she muttered. "But I will not sit next to him."

A relieved smile broke out on Gúthwyn's face. "I can arrange that," she said. "Now, how about getting dressed?"

* * *

An hour later, Gúthwyn swallowed hard as the doors to the Golden Hall opened. Standing before the dais of the throne with the children at her side, she watched Legolas step into the room, followed by an escort of about half a dozen Elves. Briefly she closed her eyes, reminding herself of what she had told Haiweth earlier: He was not Haldor. He would not harm her. She was safe.

The guards lining the side of the hall—Tun among them, smiling at her every so often—bowed as the prince made his way down the room. It came to her that she had never seen Legolas acting as a leader before, but there was not much change in his appearance: His back was still perfectly straight, and his eyes still made a customary flick around the room as if checking for a trap.

One of the Elves behind him was Trelan, and Gúthwyn thought the one beside him was familiar. Legolas had likely introduced him as well, though she had not taken care to remember his name, and now regretted it.

Her heart hammered wildly in her chest as Legolas drew nearer to her, even more so as he bowed. "My lady," he said.

"My lord," Gúthwyn responded equally courteously, curtsying. His eyes met hers, and she struggled to keep the fear out of them.

After what seemed like an eternity, Legolas turned and bowed to Éomer. "Many thanks, good king, for allowing myself and my companions to rest here. Your graciousness is most appreciated."

Sitting atop his throne, Éomer nodded. "It is an honor, my friend, to host your people."

Slipping into the role that Éowyn used to play, Gúthwyn stepped forwards. "A room has been prepared for you, my lord," she told Legolas, trying not to think of the Elf sleeping in what used to be Théodred's chambers. "Lodgings for the others have also been arranged."

"Thank you," Legolas replied quietly.

"As we speak," Éomer said then, "the cooks are making ready a feast. Your presence would delight us."

"I would not dream of refusing," Legolas answered.

Gúthwyn repressed a sigh at the formalities. It was wearisome to go through them with every guest that came to Meduseld, especially if they were royalty. She was secretly glad that Aragorn had not yet deigned to visit what must now seem to him their humble abode, as she could only begin to imagine the pomp and dignity that would accompany the event.

Servants came forth then, offering to show Legolas his rooms. He accepted, but before he went with them he looked at Gúthwyn. "How are you?" he inquired, searching her eyes for the tiniest hint of discomfort. She masked her anxiety.

"I am f—well, thank you," she answered him.

He nodded, and was then led away; yet Gúthwyn did not allow herself to shudder until she had retired to her chambers. _May the week soon be over,_ she prayed.


	14. Painful Memories

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fourteen:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fourteen**

"Here, allow me," Legolas said as Gúthwyn made to sit down. With perfect grace and elegance, he pulled out the chair for her. Clutching her hands tightly so that they would not tremble, Gúthwyn lowered herself stiffly into the seat, and tried not to wince as he pushed it back towards the table.

"Thank you," she replied as he walked around the table to where his own chair had been placed across from hers. They were sitting on either side of Éomer, who as usual was presiding over the table at its head. Mercifully, Legolas was the only Elf so close to Gúthwyn: Beside her was Gamling, and across from him Erkenbrand; next to him was Tun, and then the children were on a small bench between her champion and Cobryn.

All around them, the servants were bringing out the food that had been prepared for tonight's feast. Tomorrow would be the one all the people in Rohan were invited to attend, as Éomer did not wish to overwhelm his guests with a large party on their first night in the Golden Hall.

"Tell me, Legolas, how go things in Mirkwood?" Éomer inquired. "I confess myself unaware of much that occurs in Elvish lands."

As he spoke, Gúthwyn took a piece of bread from the plate in front of her, and briefly contemplated trying some of the potatoes before deciding against it.

"As a matter of fact," Legolas said with a smile, "it is no longer called Mirkwood. The realm of my father is now known as Eryn Lasgalen, 'wood of green leaves.' For the shadow that long haunted our forests has been dispersed, and our people need not fear it as they used to."

"That is good tidings, then," Éomer replied, inclining his head. "And I trust your father is well?"

"Yes," Legolas answered, "for which I am glad. The woods are slowly being replenished from the Enemy's assault, and the forest is more wholesome. We have more causes now to celebrate than before. Our people are happy, and that is of utmost importance to him."

Gúthwyn took a small spoonful of the stew and put it on her plate. As Legolas and Éomer carried out their conversation, she surreptitiously spread it around the plate, eating as little of it as was required to not raise suspicion.

"Your realm seems prosperous, my friend," Legolas said then. "You have done much work, I deem."

"Aye," Éomer acknowledged, "though it was well worth it. Admittedly, this one of the few full months I have spent in the city, for I have often been away on campaigns with King Elessar. Gúthwyn has ruled the people in my stead."

Legolas looked at her, and she determinedly kept her face rid of nervousness. "You must have done a wonderful job," he complimented her.

Gúthwyn flushed, knowing that she deserved hardly any of the credit. "The greater honor goes to Éomer's advisors, who somehow managed to endure my ignorance and lack of experience at anything regarding politics."

Next to her, Gamling almost choked on his bread. When he at last recovered, he said to her, "Nay, my lady, it was a pleasure to endure your ignorance. It made the meetings far more entertaining."

She laughed. "I am glad to be of service, then!"

"Indeed," Erkenbrand added, his eyes sparkling with delight, "I shall not soon recall without a smile the time you suggested that we abandon the council because it was a nice day out!"

The men around them chortled in amusement, and the corners of Legolas' lips twitched into a faint grin. Even Éomer could not help but laugh. "Sister, I am afraid you were never one for politics," he said. "Yet one would have to search far to find another more willing to serve the people."

"That is always a good thing," Legolas said, nodding at her. She flushed under his gaze, and picked at a tiny piece of bread.

For a time, the conversation turned to light banter, which Gúthwyn was all too happy to focus on. She bore the brunt of several jokes, most of them centered on her mishaps in the council chambers. This she did not mind, as it took her awareness off of the fact that Legolas was sitting directly across from her.

"It was not my fault!" she protested with a giggle as Cobryn finished wrapping up a tale of how she had slept past three one afternoon and had stumbled into the meeting with only a robe over her nightgown. "I was tired!"

"Somehow the rest of us managed to come fully dressed," Cobryn smirked.  
"We all have our shortcomings," she retorted, grinning. "Shall we discuss someone else's?"

"Aye, Tun," Gamling said then, raising his eyebrows at the younger guard. "Speaking of shortcomings, has your technique deteriorated that much since I last sparred you? I do believe I am not exaggerating when I say that you lost all ten matches today, whereas normally you give me a challenge."

Beside the captain, Elfhelm snorted. "That is all to easy to explain," he replied, and glanced at Gúthwyn. "With all due respect, my lady, your presence seems to distract your champion."

Several of the men exchanged strange smiles that Gúthwyn could not decipher the meaning of. She nevertheless attempted to make amends. "I am sorry, Tun," she said, smiling at her friend. His cheeks were tinged a light pink. "I certainly did not intend to."

"You need not apologize, my lady," Tun answered swiftly.

"So, Legolas," Éomer said abruptly, halting the current chatter, "you have told us about your kingdom and your father. What about yourself?"

"There is not much to say," Legolas admitted. "I have spent much time preparing the colony, and that is where my energies have lain for several months. On top of that, my father is beginning to broach the subject of marriage."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened. "Have you found a wife yet?" she asked, somehow unable to picture him marrying. Her hand twitched, and she moved it under the table.

Legolas shook his head. "I must say, I have not given the topic much thought," he responded. "My father only wants what is best for me, but I have decided to wait until things settle in Ithilien before considering his words."

"You have many years ahead of you," Éomer answered with a smile. "Should you delay until I am gone, good luck and congratulations."

"I do not think I will wait that long," Legolas said quietly. "But as of now, it is of little importance. Shall I inquire, friend, if you have found a suitable queen yet?"

Gúthwyn and Éomer looked at each other. She did not doubt that they were both picturing Lothíriel.

"Well," Éomer began at length, taking a long drain of his mug, "there have been hesitant negotiations. I will say no more until the matter is resolved."

"Then I shall not press you," Legolas said, though his eyes went back and forth between the king and his sister.

In an effort to navigate the conversation into safer waters, Éomer asked, "Have you yet seen all of my city?"

"I confess I have not," Legolas answered. "A shame, though I have only spent a week or two in Rohan altogether."

"Then we must change that," Éomer said immediately, and turned to Gúthwyn. "Sister, I have several meetings tomorrow, but do you think you might give our guest a tour of Edoras?"

Gúthwyn's heart froze, and as Legolas' slightly widened eyes fixed on her, she almost felt as if she would start trembling from fear.

"That is not necessary, really," Legolas said quickly, seeing her panicked expression.

"No, I insist you do not go without someone who knows their way around," Éomer replied, oblivious to Gúthwyn's mood. "My sister is perfect for that; she also is acquainted with nearly all the people. What say you, Gúthwyn?"

"I-I…" Éomund's daughter trailed off, swallowed hard, and continued weakly, "Of course I will. Th-Though it will have to be in the afternoon."

"Are you sure?" Legolas asked concernedly, lowering his voice. "I do not want to impose."

"N-No, I will be fine," Gúthwyn said hastily, and then quickly changed the subject. "Brother, did I tell you that I got a letter from Éowyn today?"

"No," Éomer said, and leaned closer. "How is she? Do things with Faramir go well?"

"She and Faramir are both happy," Gúthwyn reported, ignoring the twinge in her stomach at the thought of the man who had killed Borogor. "They recently visited Minas Tirith, where they were well received by Lord Aragorn. Éowyn said she was glad to see the Houses of Healing again, and learned some more about various herbs and medicines."

Ever since she had married Faramir, Éowyn had begun studying the ways of the healer, much to Gúthwyn and Éomer's bewilderment. Yet it pleased the White Lady, and they would not think for the briefest second of marring her delight.

"Herbs and medicines," Éomer muttered, shaking his head. "To think that this is the sister who took so much delight in triumphing over me in a sparring match! Ah, well. I am glad to hear that she and Faramir are fine."

"Do you think she might return home soon?" Gúthwyn asked hopefully. She missed Éowyn, having not seen her for over a year.

"I wrote to her recently and extended an invitation for whenever she chose to accept it," Éomer replied. "Though from what I hear, she is quite content in Emyn Arnen."

Gúthwyn picked at her bread some more.

"Gúthwyn," Legolas began then, and she started. "Have you been able to take much time for yourself in the past year?"

Flustered, she said, "Oh, yes. I have been training with the men whenever I can, and I am teaching Haiweth how to write."

"How are her lessons going?" Legolas queried, glancing at the child. Haiweth inched closer to Hammel, and Gúthwyn thought she saw some of the happiness in the Elf's face falter.

"Well, thank you," Gúthwyn was swift to reply. "She is becoming my favorite little artist." A broad smile came to her face. "And Hammel, from what I hear, continues to excel at his lessons. Is that not true, Cobryn?"

"I have only compliments for his studies," her friend answered, and though Hammel was intently concentrating on his plate, she could tell that he was secretly pleased.

The rest of the dinner unfolded without event. Gúthwyn managed to eat a slice of bread; however, she immediately regretted it, for Legolas began talking to her about her land and its people. She was able to converse with him, but her hands would not stop shaking, and she felt so nauseous by the time the meal was over that even the mere sight of food made her want to vomit. Her entire body had been on edge the whole night, her muscles tensing ceaselessly and her throat often feeling constricted.

When at last the feast had finished, including the endless talk afterwards in which tidings of both realms were exchanged, they all stood up to take some rest. Gúthwyn bid good night to all the men, trying desperately to keep her face from paling. The night had been too long, and her mind under stress for too great a span of time.

"Farewell, my lady," Tun said, sounding as if he were speaking underwater. Mentally, Gúthwyn shook her head, and gave a strained smile to him.

"Sleep well," she responded. "After I show Legolas around"—a cold wave of fear washed over her at the thought—"shall we spar together?"

"Of course," Tun happily agreed, and with a bow he and Erkenbrand departed.

Gradually, the other guests began filtering out, and soon Gúthwyn was left with no choice but to approach Legolas. "I hope your rest is undisturbed tonight," she said with a curtsy, barely able to conceal a tremble as she did so. She needed to get away from him. The walls of Meduseld were closing around her, seeking to suffocate her with their grip, and she was helpless…

"Good night, Gúthwyn," Legolas responded, inclining his head. "I will see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes," she promised him, curling and uncurling a fist. He bowed and left; she watched his back as he disappeared into the passage leading to Théodred's chambers. There was no difference between him and Haldor.

"Good night, sister," Éomer said then, drawing her briefly into a one-armed hug before releasing her. "Try and wake up sometime around noon."

"N-No guarantees," Gúthwyn managed with a small smile.

They parted then, and she hurried out of the throne room, anxious around the shadows that were now beginning to form. The children had already gone to bed, and she was the only one going down the corridor.

_Why is it so dark here?_ she wondered, her palms beginning to sweat.

There was a creaking noise behind her. Gúthwyn took fright and bolted for the safety of her chambers, unreasonably afraid that it was Legolas trying to corner her after everyone had retired to their beds. _What are you doing?_ she yelled at herself as she slammed the door and bolted it. Quivering, she leaned against the wall, wiping her clammy brow with the back of her hand.

It took her several deep, shaky breaths before she felt well enough to cross the room. Her stomach was tying itself in knots: the terror of seeing Legolas after more than a year had wreaked havoc on her nerves.

_You are fine,_ she told herself sternly. _You survived dinner._

But it was with a strange detachment that she went over to the chamber pot, kneeled in front of it, and threw up her entire meal.

Afterwards, she felt better. As she wiped her mouth with a damp cloth—wishing all the while that Borogor were with her—she noticed that her stomach was beginning to settle. And her hands were less jittery. She held them in front of her for ten seconds and they did not twitch once. Relieved, she went to her dresser and took out a nightgown. When she had finished putting it on, she lay the green dress carefully over a chair for the maids to wash.

Then she hid the chamber pot underneath her bed, so that the women would not think she had used it. Sometime tomorrow she would have to find the opportunity to empty it in secret. If the maids knew that she had just thrown up, she would find no rest from their endless concerned queries. Éomer would be notified, and that would be the end of any activities she had planned for the day.

Which would actually solve the problem of having to give Legolas a tour. Gúthwyn hovered beside her bed, debating. Should she pretend to be sick from the food, and therefore not able to show him around? _No,_ she at last decided. It was a cowardly thing to do, and she did not want to be bedridden for the entire day. Besides, now that she had vomited, some of her fear had disappeared. Had she not been on tentatively good terms with him before? Had she not even danced with him?

_Stop being such a craven child,_ she scolded herself as she got into bed. _He has done nothing to hurt you._

_He made you let him sew up your stomach,_ another voice argued. _How many memories of Haldor did that conjure up? He saw that tear just as well as you felt it._

But just as adamantly, the rational half of her mind insisted, _That was only because he did not want you to heal the wound himself. And he was right: Your hands were trembling too much to hold the needle steady. If anyone else had walked in on you, they would have done the same._

Gúthwyn groaned and buried her face in her pillow, trying to stifle her tormented thoughts. For a long time she lay there unmoving, doing her best to simply inhale and exhale. She was nowhere close to falling asleep; however, she would not have it be so because she was not trying. So she took several deep breaths, willing herself to forget about both Legolas and Haldor.

Yet that meant that her mind soon turned to Borogor, and from there to Faramir. Yes, she had made peace with Éowyn's husband, but that was only for her sister's sake. Had the two of them not married, she would have refused to even look at him—or she would have merely killed him. So now, whenever she wanted to visit Éowyn, she would be forced to endure the company of the man who had slain Borogor.

Which brought her again to the question: How could she have been so _stupid?_ How could she not have realized that they were both in love with each other? She had plenty of friends in Rohan, but it was with none of them that she fought until the blood came and one of them had pinned the other helplessly to the ground. Borogor was the person in whose hands she would have gladly placed her life; he knew everything that Haldor had done to her, and had not wondered why she barely ate, or why the sight of golden hair made her tremble, or how she could vomit so frequently.

Gúthwyn's eyes were beginning to water when there was a noise from the door. Whirling around in a panic, she saw the knob turning once, twice, several times—it was deterred by the lock she was using. Cautiously she got out of bed and edged towards the door, wondering who on Middle-earth would be visiting her at this hour. A terrified part of her was afraid it was Legolas.

"Who is it?" she called quietly, leaning close to the crack in the door to hear better.

For a long time, there was silence, until a high-pitched voice said, "H-Haiweth."

Immediately, berating herself for bolting the entrance to her chambers, Gúthwyn undid the lock and hastily opened the door. Haiweth stood outside in the hall, her thumb in her mouth and a blanket clutched in her hand. "Nightmare," she whispered.

"Oh, Haiweth," Gúthwyn said softly, and bent down to pick the child up in her arms. Haiweth held onto her tightly, burying her face in her neck. "What was it about, little one?" she asked, swaying gently back and forth.

"Haldor," Haiweth whimpered, and Gúthwyn felt her blood run cold. Haiweth never had nightmares about the Elf.

"Haldor?" Éomund's daughter repeated, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. "What about him?"

"H-He killed the m-m-monsters and then chased me," Haiweth said. Tears began leaking out of the girl's eyes, and soon a wet spot had formed on the shoulder of Gúthwyn's nightgown. "He was _mean!_" the child sobbed.

Gúthwyn closed her eyes, counted to five, and then opened them. "Did he catch you?" she inquired cautiously.

Haiweth shook her head. "I-I woke up."

For a moment Gúthwyn was quiet, merely rocking the child to and fro, but then she thought of something that had been troubling her for over two years. "Little one, if I ask you a question, will you promise to answer it truthfully?"

Meekly, Haiweth nodded.

"Were you and Haldor ever alone together?" Gúthwyn asked, lowering her voice. Right before she had left Mordor, Haldor had threatened her that he would force himself on Haiweth, if Gúthwyn did not please him. Haiweth had only been five at the time.

Haiweth bit her lip. "No," she said at length, and Gúthwyn breathed a sigh of fierce relief. "But he made you sad."

"Yes," Gúthwyn replied ruefully. "Yes, he did."

"Where did he go?" Haiweth wondered, shivering.

Gúthwyn paused. She had told Hammel of how she had killed Haldor, but neither of them had informed Haiweth of his death. "Well, little one," she said at length, "he is gone."

"Gone?" Haiweth repeated in bewilderment, hiccupping slightly.

"I made sure he will not scare you anymore," Gúthwyn replied firmly. She could recall every second of their fight, the duel that she had been so sure would end in her own death. Yet the Lady Galadriel's dagger had proven to be her savior, and she had used it to kill the one who had broken her. Haldor's body now lay somewhere on Amon Hen, likely rotting and unrecognizable.

Haiweth shifted in her arms. "I do not want to go back," she mumbled. "I want to stay with you."

"Of course you can," Gúthwyn murmured soothingly. "Shall we try and go to sleep now?"

Haiweth nodded, and Gúthwyn began making her way towards her bed. She wondered if Haiweth's dream was connected at all to Legolas' visit. The two of them had hardly spoken that night, but perhaps the mere sight of him had a similar effect on the girl as it did on her. _That would not be surprising_, she thought grimly to herself as she laid Haiweth on the bed. _He and Haldor are exactly alike._

But as she climbed underneath the covers next to Haiweth, wrapping an arm protectively around the child, Gúthwyn reflected that that was not all the case.

Yes, she could place Legolas and Haldor side by side and not be able to tell one from the other. However, as much as she was loath to admit it, their actions were as different as night and day. Legolas was always courteous to her, moreso than she deserved—yet after the first month of their acquaintance, Haldor had not so much as smiled pleasantly at her.

"Good night," Haiweth said blearily, yawning as she did so.

"Sleep well, Haiweth," Gúthwyn responded. She absently stroked the girl's hair, hoping to lull her into a peaceful rest. Gradually it began working: Haiweth's breathing evened, and her hiccups were quelled. Before long she was comfortably asleep.

Yet Gúthwyn remained awake, and it was not until the sun dyed the horizon red that she at last closed her eyes and knew no more.


	15. It Is Never Good to Forget Mistakes

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifteen:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fifteen**

_Twang._ Legolas released the arrow from his bow, sending it straight towards the middle of the target. It punctured the center neatly, making him smile briefly before he nocked his bow a second time. Now he aimed at the ring surrounding the bullseye, and sent one arrow after another towards it. His intent was to form a circle of arrows, but before he could do so he heard his name being called.

Glancing up, he saw his friends Raniean and Trelan approaching him, their own quivers slung over their backs. King Éomer, knowing their fondness for archery, had given them an open invitation to use the shooting range located just outside of the city walls. The Rohirrim were quality bowmen, and though the place did not compare to that in Mirkwood, Legolas had found it more than suitable for his needs.

"Good morning," he greeted the Elves as they drew nearer.

Trelan grinned at him as he set his things down. "Trying to achieve beyond perfection, my friend?" he smirked. All of them knew fully well that Legolas had been up since the early morning practicing—and it was nearly noon.

Legolas rolled his eyes. "I am hardly perfect." Lifting his bow, he took aim and shot. The arrow flew towards the target and landed exactly where he had wanted it to.

Raniean glanced at the growing ring of arrows and snorted. "Show-off," he muttered. Legolas merely chuckled, and added another arrow to the circle.

As he was selecting an arrow, Trelan leaned close to the prince and said quietly, "That child is watching you."

Legolas' eyes narrowed in confusion until he looked back towards the city. Standing on the watchtower, partially obscured by a large wooden post, was Hammel. The boy was unmoving as he gazed at Legolas, and did not even blink as he was discovered.

"His name is Hammel, right?" Trelan asked in an undertone.

"Yes," Legolas confirmed, and returned to his shooting. As he nocked his bow, he wondered—not for the first time—about the boy's nature. The child was quiet, but he had a feeling that he knew a lot more than he let on. And he observed Legolas ceaselessly, more wary than angry; the prince did not doubt that he was fully aware of whatever Haldor had done to Gúthwyn.

His thoughts shifted to the woman. She had seemed fine at dinner, though he had noticed that her hands were often twitching and her face flushed whenever she looked at him. He had been careful in striking up a conversation with her, not wanting to conjure up memories of Haldor, but he was unaware of most of her past and as a result it was near impossible: It was like trying to avoid stepping in a puddle with no light to see it by.

The royal guards were clearly devoted to her. He could see that she had a remarkable way with the people. All of them treated her with respect, but were comfortable enough to make jokes at her expense. Nor had she minded; indeed, she had often joined in the laughter, ridiculing her antics as much as the next man. It was a rare instance for Legolas to see her so happy, and he took pleasure in every moment of it.

Nor could he help but observe one of the guards' actions closely. Tun, Gúthwyn's champion, had barely taken his eyes off of her the entire dinner. Whenever they spoke together, a soft smile crossed his face. She, too, obviously held him in high esteem, making Legolas tempted to ask whether or not she was considering marriage. The subject had been touched on, momentarily, but he had deemed it too much of an invasion of her privacy to pursue the matter.

_Twang._ The ring was nearly completed. He took a quick look over at the watchtower. Hammel was still there, in the exact same position as he had been several moments ago.

"Do you think he is shy?" Trelan queried, his gaze also on the boy. He had been using the target next to Legolas', and had just emptied his quiver.

"No," Legolas replied firmly. It was slightly disturbing how calmly Hammel was staring at them.

Yet he was a trained warrior, and when he put his hand to the bow once more he was not distracted by the boy's presence. _Twang, twang, twang._ Only a single arrow was needed to finish the circle. He reached down for one of the last projectiles, pausing for an instant to run his fingers over the fletching. As he did so, his thoughts went back to Hammel and Gúthwyn. The former clearly was unsure whether or not to trust him; had Gúthwyn sent him to survey their practice?

No sooner had the thought crossed through his mind than he dismissed it. Gúthwyn seemed more likely to try to avoid him at all costs, though she had shown few signs of anxiety when they had spoken at dinner. He could see it in her eyes, but that was only to be expected. And she had agreed to give him a tour of Edoras, although he had to admit that Éomer's offer was a misguided gesture. She must not have told her brother about the similarities between him and Haldor; yet she had said she would show him around.

_Twang._ A ring of arrows now surrounded the one in the center of the target. Legolas smiled, and lowered his bow. At the same time, Hammel turned around and vanished.

"That, my friend," Raniean said, raising an eyebrow and pointing at the prince's handiwork, "is a sign that you need to start doing something other than practicing."

"Jealous?" Legolas smirked, knowing fully well that the other Elf was extremely talented with a bow.

"I will tell your father about that haughty comment," Raniean threatened, "and…" He trailed off, his gaze fixed on something over Legolas' shoulder. "Hammel is coming towards us."

Legolas turned around to see the boy passing through the gates, his eyes still narrowed at the Elves.

"Shall we leave?" Trelan asked, spotting Hammel as well.

"I do not know what he wants," Legolas replied, somewhat baffled as to the child's intentions.

"Well, I do not think he plans on speaking to us," Raniean said shrewdly. "He watches you all the time."

Before Legolas could say anything, his friends started packing their quivers. They bid him farewell and left, making their way towards the gates. Both of them waved at Hammel as they passed, but the child did not return the gesture. Legolas was left alone to wonder what he had in mind.

"Hello, Hammel," he said cautiously as the boy approached, unsure of how he would react.

Hammel slowed to a stop in front of him, keeping a five-foot distance between them. "Did you tell your friends to leave?" he asked, not acknowledging the greeting.

"No," Legolas answered, unsure of what the boy was getting at.

Hammel studied him for a moment, and then said, "I want to go on a walk." There was nothing demanding about his voice, which was coolly polite—yet still Legolas raised his eyebrows, not having expected such a declaration.

"As you wish," the prince at length said, his curiosity piqued. "Let me just retrieve my arrows."

He went towards the target, and was mildly surprised when Hammel started following him. Neither of them spoke as they started pulling out the arrows. The boy collected his carefully, gathering a thick bunch in his fist before handing them wordlessly over to Legolas. Putting them back in his quiver, the Elf asked, "Where do you want to go?"

"Inside," was the short response.

Slinging his quiver over his shoulder, Legolas began walking towards the city gates, maintaining his pace so that Hammel could keep up. The boy did so easily, but still did not speak. In silence they passed through the gates, nodding at the guard as they came onto the main street of Edoras. The midday sun streamed brightly above them, filtering down onto the bustling crowds. All around them people were conversing in fluent Rohirric, yet no words escaped the Elf and the child at his side.

For a time, Legolas was content to merely watch the Rohirrim, smiling once or twice as children raced by with wooden swords in their hands, but after several minutes had passed he began wondering what Hammel had planned. He glanced at the boy, only to see that he was staring off into the distance to where the roof of Meduseld glowed golden in the sun.

The two of them had nearly reached the Golden Hall when Hammel abruptly turned off of the main road and went a little ways down towards the armory. Legolas followed him, noting that there was hardly anyone nearby. King Éomer was not expected to ride out for at least another month, and as a result none of the men needed to gather their armor. Only one person was in view—an amateur blacksmith, working diligently over a small fire at a blade. He had taken out one of the other swords to look at as he hammered at the iron. A prickling unease came over Legolas as he tried and failed to imagine why Hammel had brought him here.

Taking no notice of the blacksmith, Hammel went straight towards the armory. Legolas held back, and looked on as the boy knelt in the dirt in front of the door. With his hands he began digging a small hole, much to the prince's bewilderment. He was clearly searching for something.

"Hammel," Legolas said, drawing closer, but he might as well have been talking to a wall.

The blacksmith glanced up at him and smiled. "He comes up here nearly every day," he commented, wiping his forehead with a grimy hand. "I have not gotten a word out of him yet."

He set the iron down on a table to cool, removed his gloves, and picked up his model sword. Then he went into the armory. Legolas heard him say a greeting to Hammel, but the boy did not answer him.

"What are you doing?" the prince at length inquired, going over to where the boy was digging and crouching down next to him.

Hammel blinked slowly, and edged his foot an inch away before continuing. Legolas bit back his frustration, but did not have to wait for much longer: Only a few more seconds had passed until the boy pulled out a wooden figure. Squinting at it, Legolas saw that it had been carven in the shape of a child, accompanied with a miniature bow and arrow. The craftsmanship was remarkable—the only thing wrong with it was its feet, which had been inexplicably blackened.

"Haldor gave this to me," Hammel said, and handed it to him.

More confused than ever, Legolas accepted it, his fingers absently twirling the arrow around. He held up the figure, trying to imagine the cruel Elf who had tried to kill Gúthwyn making this for a boy. Was there something more to it? A hidden message, perhaps? _Why does Hammel want to show me this?_ he thought to himself, perplexed.

Unbidden, memories of something similar came rising up within him. The last time he had seen a likeness of a child had been on… Gúthwyn's back. His stomach twisted as he recalled the horrific wounds that had disfigured the skin beyond recognition, the countless welts and lacerations that had been revealed when Aragorn had taken off her tunic to tend to her wounds. Somehow, Haldor had used his blade to carve the shape of a child on her back. Yet the person had had an arrow stuck through their head.

Repressing the waves of revulsion that were now sweeping over him, Legolas examined the head of the figure carefully. Its face was smooth and perfectly round; there was a small mouth, its lips pressed together; and then there were two eyes. One of them was normal, though as Legolas looked closer he noticed that the left eye had a miniscule hole in it.

The arrow suddenly weighed heavily in his fingers, and slowly at first, hardly knowing why he was doing it, Legolas brought the projectile up towards the eye. The tip of the arrow was an exact fit. His eyes widened.

"Gúthwyn does not know I still have it," Hammel said, holding out his hand. Too dumbfounded and appalled to speak, Legolas gave it back to him. "She did not like it."

Managing to recover somewhat, the Elf asked, "Why did you keep it?" He inwardly winced to picture what the expression on Gúthwyn's face had been when she had seen the toy. Which, he realized with a sudden surge of disgust, had likely been Haldor's intent in the first place: To make her squirm, to watch her discomfort and fear.

"To remind me," Hammel said seriously, his eyes dark. "It is never good to forget mistakes."

Before Legolas could think of anything to say, the boy stood up, and casting a quick glance over his shoulder strode over towards the small fire. He held the figure out over the flames, just enough so that its legs started charring.

"Hammel," Legolas called sharply, alarmed at this behavior. He got to his feet and strode over to the boy, intending to pull him away so that he could not burn himself. Yet Hammel stepped swiftly backwards, avoiding all contact. For a long time the two of them watched each other, until at last Legolas broke the silence. "Why did you do that?"

"Because," Hammel explained, slowly and patiently as if he were talking to his sister, "punishment needed to be given."

"Punishment?" Legolas echoed, now deeply disturbed at what he had just witnessed from the young child.

"I made a mistake," Hammel replied calmly, though his eyes were narrowed.

"What mistake?" Legolas inquired, keeping his tone as even as he could.

Hammel turned away from him, and then walked back to where the fresh mound of dirt lay. He put the carving back in the hole, burying it anew. Legolas drew close as he did this, squatting down once more; he was determined to get at least some information from the enigmatic boy.

"When I was five," Hammel said then, smoothing out the last of the dirt, "Haldor asked me to go on a walk with him. He was the leader of all the men, even… even Gúthwyn's friend." The pause was noticeable. "I wanted him to like me, so I went. Gúthwyn did not want me to go. Her friend had to stop her from attacking Haldor. I thought she was being overprotective."

"Was that when he gave you the toy?" Legolas asked quietly, pity washing over him as he imagined what Gúthwyn must have gone through.

Hammel nodded. "I showed it to Gúthwyn when I came back, and she dropped it. Haldor told me not to tell her what we said, even though we barely spoke. I was angry with her for not liking the toy, and I kept the secret. So she went to Haldor's tent."

Legolas' breath caught in his throat. The image of Gúthwyn's scarred back was renewed in full force, until he could actually see Haldor holding a scarlet knife and pressing it into her flesh as she screamed in agony. If that had been the exchange for information…

"That was my mistake," Hammel said simply. "And when she returned, I heard her say to her friend that it was her seventeenth birthday. He wished her a happy birthday, but it was too late."

Legolas felt his stomach turned cold. He could barely begin to fathom how miserable Gúthwyn's life had been at that point—for Haldor to use the children for the purpose of manipulating her was sickening. And for that to happen to someone who had not even lived two decades… It was no wonder that whenever she looked into his eyes he saw fear underlying her every gesture.

"Hammel," he said, trying to comprehend the guilt the boy was feeling, "you were not to blame for that."

"Yes, I was," Hammel said angrily, spitting on the dirt that covered his toy. "She went to his tent because I did not tell her that Haldor and I spoke no more than five words to each other. I ruined her birthday."

"You did not know," Legolas said gently, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It was not your fault."

With a snarl, Hammel wrenched away and leaped to his feet. Legolas realized then what he had done. "You have no idea," the boy hissed at him, venom covering every word. "You have no idea what he did to her! And yet you think you know enough to tell me that I could not have prevented some of it?"

"Hammel, I am sorry," Legolas tried to say, but the child ignored him.

"You never saw the look on her face when she came back to our tent! She thought I was asleep, but I heard everything that she told her friend. You never saw how she shook whenever Haldor glanced at her! You never saw how her face turned white whenever someone said his name! You never saw how sick she used to get because of him! You never—"

"Hammel, stop," Legolas interrupted him, though not unkindly. The boy fell silent, glaring at him. "You are right. I have not seen half of what you have. But do not mistake me for being ignorant. Haldor tried to kill her in front of my eyes. And whenever she looks at me I see for myself the terror of what she went through. Your sister is afraid of me as well. What have I done? Nothing, Hammel. I have never wanted to cause you, Haiweth, or Gúthwyn any pain. It is beyond me to interpret Haldor's mind."

Hammel did not say anything, and with a sigh Legolas got to his feet. It felt as if with each encounter he had with these children, more of Haldor's weight was placed on his shoulders. "My apologies," he spoke, inclining his head. "Forgive me."

"No," Hammel said simply. "I am sorry." Then, to Legolas' astonishment, he stood at the prince's side. "We should go back. Gúthwyn will be worried."

Still marveling at the abrupt changes in this boy's mind, and wondering how much of an effect Mordor had had on him, Legolas nodded. "I would not want that to happen," he replied.

"Neither would I."

The two of them did not converse anymore as they went back onto the main street and continued the rest of the way to the Golden Hall. Legolas' mind was turning over all that he had just heard, fitting it into the foggy picture he had of Gúthwyn's past. One piece of the puzzle he greatly desired to find was that of the mysterious friend—was it the man she had nearly collapsed in tears over, the one who had died? But he knew he could not ask her; he did not wish to overstep his bounds more than he already had.

They were just starting to climb up the steps when the doors to Meduseld opened, and Gúthwyn, Haiweth, and Tun came outside. All three of them stopped short at the sight of Legolas and Hammel together.

"Hammel," Gúthwyn said faintly, her face turning pale. "Hammel, what are you doing?"


	16. Tour Around the City

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixteen:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Sixteen**

"Gúthwyn?"

Éomund's daughter stirred, everything a blur in front of her half-opened eyes. She wanted to go back to sleep… what time was it?

"Gúthwyn?"

Was that Haiweth? Confused, she struggled to see through the mist shrouding her gaze. Blinking away the remnants of the night, Gúthwyn's eyes slowly but surely focused on the child. "Haiweth," she said with a smile, instinctively reaching out for the girl.

Haiweth came into her arms willingly, curling up under the covers. "I slept better," she murmured against Gúthwyn's shoulder.

"I am glad to hear that, little one," Gúthwyn replied, stroking the girl's hair. "No more nightmares?"

"No more," Haiweth sighed contentedly.

For a time they remained there, Gúthwyn in all actuality ready to start sleeping again, but at length Haiweth stirred. "I want to eat," she said.

Gúthwyn nodded. "Do you know what time it is?"

Haiweth shook her head. "Want food," she instead replied.

"All right," Gúthwyn conceded, exhaling. She pulled the blankets down, and watched amusedly as Haiweth scampered out of the bed.

"May I please wear my new dress?" the girl begged, looking at Gúthwyn with wide, innocent eyes.

Gúthwyn laughed. When Éomer had last returned from Gondor, he had given Haiweth a dress for special occasions. It was a pretty gown, and Haiweth had taken to it instantly; yet it was not something that she could use on any given day. So far, she had not been able to wear it.

"No, little one, not now," she said amusedly, and Haiweth's hopeful expression turned into a pout. "But there will be a feast later today, and you may wear it then."

Haiweth's face lit up, and she let out a cry of delight before racing out of the room—likely to brag to Hammel about her recently acquired privilege, or to go examine the dress carefully and pronounce it the most beautiful gown in the world. Chuckling, and glad that the child's nightmare was forgotten, Gúthwyn stretched and got out of bed.

Almost immediately, she remembered that she had promised Legolas to give him a tour of Edoras. A curse escaped her. She had gotten what felt like only a few hours of sleep last night—well, rather, this morning—and was in no mood to have any prolonged conversation with him. What had she been thinking, to agree to Éomer's suggestion?

_Stop being pathetic,_ she scolded herself. _The worst is over. You have already seen him; it is not as if you are anxiously waiting for his arrival. Is it so hard to simply forget about Haldor for one afternoon?_

The answer to that, of course, was yes. As much as Gúthwyn wanted to banish the memories of her time in Mordor, they were permanently emblazoned on her like the brand that still marred her wrist. She had covered the mark up with long sleeves, but like the ghosts of her past it still lurked beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to show itself. Not once had she shown it to anyone after Théoden, Éowyn, and Éomer; nor did she want to.

And as she made her way to the dresser, she reflected that the physical signs of Haldor's abuse still remained. Her back had not yet healed; the crudely carved child was still etched onto the skin, glaring at her whenever she looked at it in the mirror. Sometimes she got sick at the sight of it, thinking of how she had carried around his warning for years without realizing it.

Shivering slightly, she reached into one of the drawers and pulled out a grey dress. Quickly she changed into it; when she was done, she ran the brush through her hair as long as she could tolerate the activity, and then slipped on a pair of boots and left the room.

"Haiweth, have you seen Hammel?" she asked, sticking her head into their room. Haiweth was bouncing on the bed, but at Gúthwyn's question she paused.

"No," she at last replied, and hopped down onto the floor. "Maybe he is with Cobryn."

That was likely the case. Taking Haiweth's hand, Gúthwyn made her way down the passage and came into the throne room. She looked for Éomer, but her brother was sitting with some of his advisors, and had a rather large mountain of paperwork in front of him. Deciding not to bother him, she led Haiweth towards another table. Almost before they had even sat down, Elflede had bustled over to them and asked what they wanted.

"Toast!" Haiweth declared, grinning happily. Elflede smiled at her, and then glanced at Gúthwyn.

"I am not hungry, thank you," she answered.

Elflede sighed. "My lady, please eat something!" she cried in exasperation. "You are as thin as a stick!"

"I am fine," Gúthwyn insisted. She had to go through this every day; at times, she contemplated stuffing her face with whatever happened to be available just so that she could quiet the maids, but she knew she would only throw it up a few seconds later.

Elflede muttered something under her breath before turning away and going to get Haiweth's toast. The child had not noticed the exchange between the two women, and was peering around the hall interestedly.

"What is Éomer doing?" she asked. "How come he has so much parchment?"

"My brother is a very busy man," Gúthwyn replied, looking over at him fondly. "There is a lot of work to be done when you are ruling a country, little one."

"Work is boring," Haiweth said, sticking out her tongue.

It was then that the doors to the Golden Hall opened. Erkenbrand and Tun walked in, the former probably going to discuss with Éomer the repairing of Helm's Deep. Yet her champion saw her, and after a quick word with his uncle he made his way towards them. "My lady," he said, bowing.

"Good morning," Gúthwyn replied, motioning for him to sit beside her. As he did so, she noticed Éomer's eyes on her. She waved at him, though his responding smile was terse, and he soon looked back down at a map of the Mark.

"Good afternoon, I should say," Tun answered with a grin. "It is past noon."

"Is it really?" she asked, not having kept track of the time at all. "Well, Haiweth, I guess we both slept late today."

Haiweth giggled in impish delight.

"I pray your rest was undisturbed, my lady," Tun said, and Gúthwyn hesitated slightly before nodding.

"It was fine," she said. "What brings you here today?"

"My uncle wanted to discuss with Éomer some of the materials being used to rebuild Helm's Deep," Tun explained. "I thought I would come and see if you were awake."

Touched by this, Gúthwyn flushed. "I hope you did not go out of your way."

"Not at all, my lady," Tun told her.

Elflede came over in the midst of their conversation, and after giving Haiweth her toast asked Tun if he wanted something. He politely declined.

"Have you already eaten?" he inquired after Elflede had left. His brow knitted slightly.

"I am not hungry," Gúthwyn answered, and quickly changed the subject. "Would you still be interested in sparring with me after I show Legolas around?"

"Of course!" he exclaimed, faking astonishment that she would assume otherwise. "I have looked forward to it all day."

She laughed. He was one of the few people who could cheer her up instantly; what she would have done without his easygoing manner, she did not know.

"Will you be all right, walking around with the prince?" Tun queried then, lowering his voice. "Whenever you are near him, you seem tense."

"Do not worry," Gúthwyn responded, putting a reassuring hand on his arm. She was flattered that he cared so much for her well being. "Legolas and I are friends. I will be fine."

"Will you let me know if there is any trouble?" he asked gravely.

In spite of herself, Gúthwyn smiled. "Tun, you and my brother fret too much. Legolas has… he has proven himself trustworthy. I promise, you need not concern yourself with me."

Tun relented, though she could tell he was still not happy about the idea of her giving Legolas a tour. Neither was she, but she was not about to say so.

At that moment, Haiweth declared, "Done!"

Both Gúthwyn and Tun looked over to see that she had finished her toast. "Good job," Gúthwyn congratulated her. "Are you ready to go outside?"

"Yes!" she beamed, and slid off the bench. Tun got to his feet as well, and offered Gúthwyn his hand.

Smiling, she accepted, allowing him to help her to her feet. She would not deny him such a simple thing. Indeed, she slipped into the role of a lady, and said, "Will you accompany me outside, my good champion?"

"Of course, dear lady," Tun replied promptly, and they both laughed together as they started going towards the doors. Haiweth did not know what had amused them so, but she giggled anyway, and pranced ahead of them.

Just before they exited Gúthwyn glanced over at Éomer, expecting to see him deep in discussion with one of his advisors. However, he was watching her with narrowed eyes, and his jaw was clenched. She blinked in confusion, but her attention was then diverted by Tun opening the door for her. Thanking her champion, she went outside. _Éomer must be in a bad mood,_ she thought. _Perhaps there is a problem with the repairs at Helm's Deep?_

_Either that,_ she mused, rolling her eyes, _or Éomer is just being overprotective of me as usual._ She could not blame him for watching over her like a hawk, especially when she was in the company of men; after all that she had told him during her tearful collapse over a year ago, she could not expect him to do anything else. She loved her brother fiercely, and would not dream of begrudging him what at times seemed like an annoyingly needless caution.

Yet then she saw something that yanked her completely from her musings. She stopped short in shock, watching as Legolas and Hammel mounted the stairs. Haiweth and Tun halted beside her; Gúthwyn found herself unable to move as a cloud of memories swirled around her. Her seventeenth birthday…

"Hammel," she managed, swallowing hard as she stared at the boy. Haldor had taken him from her then—what had Legolas done? "Hammel, what are you doing?"

Hammel glanced at Legolas before stepping towards her. Gúthwyn could feel every muscle in her body tensing with nervousness; Tun placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"I saw him practicing archery," Hammel answered, stopping in front of her. He shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up at her, and added, "I asked him if he had fought often. Then he told me about Helm's Deep and the Battle of the Pelennor Fields."

Gúthwyn scanned his eyes for any hint of something else that he and Legolas had done, but she could read nothing.

"Forgive me," Legolas said seriously, his face lined in regret. "I should have told you where we were."

"N-No," Gúthwyn murmured shakily, irritated at herself for worrying so much. "I am sorry. I just did not know where Hammel had gone."

Turning to the boy, she suggested, "Perhaps you should go inside and seek out Cobryn's company. I am going to be showing Legolas around Edoras." It was the small part of her that did not want Hammel anywhere near the Elf that spoke for her, though her words betrayed little hint of her intent.

Hammel nodded, and went past them into Meduseld. Gúthwyn's eyes followed him as he disappeared into the Golden Hall, and then fixed on Tun. "I suppose I will see you soon," she said.

"Have fun," Tun answered, removing his hand from her shoulder. Inclining his head at Legolas, he then bowed to her and went down the steps. Something inside Gúthwyn did not want him to leave her alone with the Elf; then she angrily told herself to stop being so foolish.

"Little one," she at length addressed Haiweth, who was still standing close to her, "do you want to go on a walk with Legolas and I?"

"Yes," Haiweth agreed, but her eyes were on Legolas, and they remained there as she drew nearer to Gúthwyn and slipped her hand in the woman's.

Gúthwyn now had no choice but to look at the Elf. He had ascended the stairs until he was only two steps below them, an apologetic look still on his face. "I did not mean to cause you any distress," he said quietly.

She shook her head. "It is no matter. You have already seen the archery range, then, as well as the stables. Where would you like to start first?"

"A walk through this street would be fine," Legolas replied.

They hovered there awkwardly for a brief second until Gúthwyn recollected herself. "Then let us go," she said, and started descending the stairs. Haiweth clung tightly to her hand as Legolas joined them, though the prince kept a distance of at least one foot at all times. In addition, he placed himself on the other side of Gúthwyn, so that he was not so close to Haiweth as to alarm her. The gesture was thoughtful, and Gúthwyn found herself feeling ashamed for her earlier worries.

They struck the main street and began walking down it. Gúthwyn tried to keep up the conversation, usually by pointing out which family lived in which house. She was pleased to say that she was on familiar terms with nearly every person in Edoras by now, and such pride was distinct in her voice, try though she might to tone it down.

Legolas listened intently, even if she was boring him half to death—which she did not doubt she was, as he was the prince of another land and was troubled little by the affairs of her country—and occasionally asked her a few questions. He would have been a most amiable companion if she had not spent the majority of the time trying to battle away memories of Haldor, fights of which she was only marginally winning.

"Oh, here is Hildeth," she said at one point, and left the road to go speak with the woman. As always, Hildeth was doing the washing, though this time she had acquired a circle of fellow gossipers. If Gúthwyn joined them, she was likely to learn all that was happening in Edoras; as a result, Hildeth had become an invaluable resource to her, as well as a close friend.

A chorus of "my lady" and "my lord" greeted them, though Hildeth merely nodded. "How are you, child?" she asked.

"Well, thank you," Gúthwyn replied. "Have you met Legolas?"

"I have not," Hildeth answered, and Legolas bowed. "Begging your pardon, prince, but there is no need for that here. Not unless you intend to help me with my washing."

Haiweth giggled, and though Legolas at first looked surprised, a faint smile soon came over his face.

"I was just giving Legolas a tour," Gúthwyn explained amusedly. "I, for one, would be most honored to help you, and hear the rest of what happened to poor Ecgulf. Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Do not hold yourself to that," Hildeth responded, and looked at her shrewdly. "Between training with the men, teaching young Haiweth, and walking around with Tun—whom, might I add, seems to forget what he is doing whenever you so much as look at him—it is a wonder you have any time at all."

Gúthwyn smiled at this, though she had to defend her champion. "Now, Hildeth," she said laughingly, "how many times have I told you? Tun is one of my closest friends. You would see me with Cobryn more often if he were not holed away in Edoras counseling my brother. Would that give Tun some rest from your scrutiny?"

"No," Hildeth said, and wrung out the tunic she was washing. Then she fixed her keen eyes on Haiweth. "Young lady, have you been keeping up with your lessons?"

Looking slightly flustered at the attention, Haiweth nevertheless nodded. "I can almost write the full alphabet!" she declared proudly.

"I am glad to hear it," Hildeth said. "You keep learning, understand?"

The child pouted, but mumbled her assent. Afterwards they left, and Gúthwyn was about to continue the tour when Haiweth spotted some of her friends. "May I please play with them?" she immediately asked, letting go of Gúthwyn's hand and bouncing up and down. "Please? Please?"

Glancing over at the other girls, Gúthwyn saw that there was a circle of mothers not too far from them. "Go ahead," she answered with a smile, and watched as Haiweth skipped over to the children. They accepted her instantly, soon starting a game of tag.

Gúthwyn sighed in contentment, thankful that Haiweth was at last able to enjoy the carefree, spirited moments of childhood. In Mordor Hammel had been the only one remotely close to her in age; there was no playtime to indulge in, either, even if she did have companions. Every time Gúthwyn woke up, she thanked the Valar for their mercy—now the children were fed and clothed properly, and did not have to get up at the crack of dawn to bring water to men who would shove them if they were in a foul enough mood. And they were far, far away from Haldor.

"It gladdens me to see that she has adjusted so well," Legolas commented then, and she brought herself out of her musings to nod.

"Aye. Far too long was a happy life denied to her."

"Hammel seems to be doing fine," he ventured cautiously, and she looked at him.

"I cannot read his mood often," she at length said, folding her arms across her stomach. "But at least he does not get nightmares."

There was a pause between them, until Legolas began, "Forgive me if I am too bold, but is Haiweth's sleep oft disturbed by troubling dreams?"

Gúthwyn's eyes widened slightly, yet when she met his she could see no malicious intent in his gaze. "Sometimes," she admitted, and did not tell him that Haiweth had come to her room last night.

He nodded. "I am sorry. I did not mean to pry."

"You do not need to apologize," she answered. "Where do you want to go now?"

They were nearing the watchtower, and already the sun had gone over their heads. A few hours were left in the afternoon; then it would be time for the feast. Gúthwyn observed the prince as he thought, trying desperately to see something in his profile other than Haldor. Why was it so hard for her to accept him? Why could she not just banish the memories of her past and have a simple conversation with him, and not be reminded of the one who had mercilessly humiliated her?

As if to augment her guilt, Legolas said, "We do not have to continue the tour, if I am bothering you. I will tell your brother that I saw the city."

"I am fine," Gúthwyn replied, willing herself to believe it was true. A sudden idea came to her, and though her heart raced at the thought, she went ahead with it. "How about we do something else? You have already walked around Edoras; indeed, other than more houses, there is not much I can show you. Would you like to sit down somewhere?"

He looked slightly surprised at the suggestion, but acquiesced. Trying to cover up her nervousness, she led him to a large rock that she had often played on as a child. It was about halfway up the main street, and from there one could see the great opening in the road where much of the people mingled. There were no rowdy boys crawling over it, so she hitched up the hem of her dress and climbed on top.

Legolas smiled as he joined her.

"I know, it is not very proper," she said, unable to keep a grin from her face. "Éomer would have a fit if he saw me here."

He laughed. "I know the feeling. Whenever I look back on my childhood I wince to think of how difficult it must have been for my father to maintain me."

She raised her eyebrows. "And what did you ever do that was cringe-worthy?"

"Well," he began, a faint pink tint coming to his cheeks, "there was one incident where he told me not to climb a tree… If you had seen it, you would understand exactly why I disobeyed him. It was the tallest one around the archery range, and all of my friends teased me because my father would not allow me to climb it."

"How insulting," she said amusedly.

"What was I to do?" he returned, chuckling himself. "Of course, I waited until the instant the instructors had left. Then up I went, and when I next awoke I had a broken arm."

Gúthwyn burst out laughing. "You fell?" she asked, hardly able to believe it.

"Yes," he said ruefully. "Though I was less concerned with my injury when my father came into the room. He did not let me back on the archery range for a week."

She giggled. "What did you do in that time?"

"The other half of my punishment," Legolas replied: "I worked in the kitchens."

Gúthwyn snorted. "I cannot imagine you preparing dinner," she answered. "Théoden never made me do that, mercifully. Though I think he had his own stomach in mind."

"You were not the best cook, I presume?" Legolas questioned, smiling at her words.

Firmly, she shook her head. "My brother said that Éowyn was the only one worse than me. He used to add that we balanced each other out, since I was the one horrible at needlework. I still cannot sew two pieces of cloth together without ruining something. Quite frankly, my tutors gave up."

"Surely you are not as bad as you say," he said, his eyes meeting hers. As he spoke, a gust of wind blew at them, causing her hair to go in every which direction.

Hastily, she gathered it together in her hands. "Worse, actually."

As the wind died down, she looked at him. "I remember one time," she said softly, "my instructor insisted that I stay inside until I finished a complete circle of even stitches. I was in that room for hours, but no matter what I did, I could not do it. Either the thread would not go where I wanted it to go, or I did the last stitch and realized that the edges were totally uneven. My thumb started bleeding from all the times I pricked it with the needle."

Here she flushed, recalling what she had done next. But something told her that Legolas would not mind—and this confused her, at first; then she realized that she was distinguishing him from Haldor. Slowly, yet surely, they were becoming different.

"And?" he prompted her gently, and she shook herself out of her startled thoughts.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Then I began crying. I threw the thing away and just burst into tears. And less than five minutes later, Théodred came in the room. I was afraid he was going to yell at me, but instead he comforted me. Then he tossed all of the cloth into the fire"—she grinned at the memory—"and took me outside so that we could practice fighting instead."

"He sounds like a wonderful man," Legolas remarked, though his tone was subdued. "I wish I had gotten the chance to meet him."

Instinctively, Gúthwyn's gaze turned towards where she knew her cousin's barrow was, outside of the city walls and covered with a blanket of _simbelmynë._ Sadness came over her at the thought of him lying alone inside, with nothing but the darkness and his rusting sword for company. And his hands were so white… She shuddered at the memory.

"I am sorry," Legolas said quietly. "I should not have—"

"Legolas, you do not have to apologize for everything," Gúthwyn cut him off, surprising herself just as much as him.

"I will not, if you will not," he replied after a second's pause.

She nodded shakily. "I-I suppose we can manage that."

They remained silent for a few moments, Gúthwyn wondering at her earlier thoughts. Was she truly beginning to overlook the fact that Legolas looked as if he could be Haldor's identical twin? That his speech and simply the way he walked emulated that of her greatest fear? Or had her memories merely hidden themselves, waiting for the opportune moment to resurface?

"When did Éomer say the feast was starting?" Legolas queried then, and she blinked.

"As soon as the sun goes down," she answered, smiling a little. "Are you looking forward to it?"

He nodded. "Your people's happiness lightens my spirits."

"As it does mine," she responded, and felt a small surge of excitement rush through her. She could hardly wait to mingle with the people in the Golden Hall; even though she had to wear a fancier dress than usual at these gatherings, it became worth it the moment she stepped into the throne room. Nor did it matter much, for she was rarely motionless long enough for someone to notice how she looked. Tun usually spent most of the night dancing with her, and some of the incidents of her clumsiness on the dance floor still had her laughing whenever she mentioned them.

At the thought of Tun, she remembered that she had wanted to spar with him. The tour was just about over, she decided. It was not as if there was much to show in Edoras—the people were what made it such a wonderful place to live. Yet some of them only spoke the Common Tongue minimally, and she would have a hard time introducing Legolas to them so that the Elf could understand what was going on.

Sighing, she glanced at him. "I am going to the training grounds," she said. "But before I do, is there anything else you would like to see?"

He shook his head.

"Y-You can… you can come and watch the men," she offered, trembling slightly under his gaze.

"Thank you," Legolas said, "though I promised my father I would write him as soon as we were back in civilization." He smiled. "He likes to keep track of my whereabouts, and I do not blame him."

Gúthwyn could not help but feel relieved that he was not going to go, and then felt ashamed of herself for acting so foolish around him. In an effort to make amends—if only with her own conscience—she replied, "Then let us go back to the Golden Hall together. I certainly cannot fight in this dress."

"That would be difficult," Legolas agreed as he slid off the rock. She climbed down after him, and after dusting herself off briefly she came up by his side. They returned to Meduseld in silence, though once they had reached the doors he thanked her for showing him around.

Once Gúthwyn had reached the privacy of her chambers, she leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths. Somehow, she had survived for over an hour alone with Legolas. Was this a sign of recovery? Would she someday be able to put Haldor behind her, and maybe even forget some of the things he had done? _No,_ she decided, _I will never forget._

But in the meantime, she felt the fleeting triumph of a small victory, and knew that she had won a battle against her fears that day.


	17. Something to Think About

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventeen:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Seventeen**

Gúthwyn's sword met Tun's in a furious clash, the noise lost amongst the grunts and groans of countless sparring men. She and her champion had just begun; his own face was flushed from his previous matches, but she had not been out long enough to break a sweat. Her blade whirled effortlessly through the air, the light from the late afternoon sun hitting the metal and making it gleam.

All too soon, the skirmish was over. In less than a minute she had triumphed, delivering him a series of strikes that were too swift for him to block. At length he missed, moving his arm in the wrong direction, and she took the opportunity to leap in and place her dulled sword at his throat. "Do you yield?" she asked.

Looking slightly put out that he had been beaten so quickly—by his lady, to add insult to injury—he nevertheless nodded. "Yield."

As Gúthwyn lowered her sword, she lost no time in admonishing him. "You are not trying hard enough," she said. "It is as if you are still afraid of harming me."

"Of course I am," Tun replied. "My lady, I do not know what I would do if I hurt you."

She could not help but grin. "Éomer would probably take care of that for you," she answered. "But I doubt he will mind if you challenge me."

They had had many conversations similar to this. Tun was always too cautious around her for her liking, and she had attempted to push him as hard as she was able in order to garner a favorable reaction. Yet he persisted, and she still had not found the means with which to break down that barrier between them. However, she delighted in his company; she would tolerate the restrictions he placed on himself.

When Tun did not answer, she sighed, though not discontentedly. "Shall we go again?"

"Yes," Tun said instantly, looking relieved that she had not pressed the subject. But she was not about to let him off the hook so easily.

Within seconds after they had bowed, she lunged at him, forcing him to react much faster than he normally would have. She focused all her energies on bringing out the warrior in him, the fighting spirit that he would use on anyone in the training grounds except her. No longer would she let him treat her like some dainty thing—she would not be his lady now. She would be his equal.

He began to realize what she was doing, and tried to back down, but she would have none of it. "As your lady, I order you to attack me," she said in the brief instant that their swords clashed and brought them close together. "Spare nothing!"

His eyes widened. Before he had time to contemplate disobedience, she pushed him back a few more feet. A crowd was starting to gather around them; the men had sensed that this was more than a friendly duel. _All the better,_ she thought, grinning. _Choose your dignity, Tun._

Slowly but surely, her schemes began to take root. He was responding more quickly to her strikes, blocking them harder and swifter. Gúthwyn in turn reacted with greater force, raising the bar of performance. Éomer had taught him well: He was matching her skills easily enough, though she was just getting warmed up. The familiar flow of adrenaline worked its way through her, adding spring to her step and power to her motions. He was still being pushed back.

Nearly two minutes had gone by before she realized that they were almost at the edge of the training grounds. They had started out only five or so yards from the outside, but it was still a great distance to travel. Tun was working furiously to reverse the tide, though she would not let him have the victory if it was in her power to prevent it. All around her she could hear the men shouting, but the words blurred in a jumbled roar that was muffled in her ears.

She was in the midst of delivering a powerful blow to him when he tripped over a helmet that had been lying about, and started falling backwards. Caught off-guard by the sudden lack of resistance, Gúthwyn too stumbled. She landed above him, her hand having to grab his shoulder in order to steady herself, and before she knew what was happening her body had rolled over to the side. The momentum carried him with her, and for the briefest instant he was the one on top.

Then they turned over again. Quickly regaining her senses, Gúthwyn dug one foot into the ground and her knee into his stomach. He gasped, all the air momentarily leaving his lungs. Gripping Framwine tightly—miraculously, she had only gotten a small cut on her arm from their flailing swords—she reached forward and took a fistful of his tunic with her left hand. Using her right, she placed the tip of her sword at his throat.

"Do you yield?"

For a moment, he could only stare at her. In case he got any ideas, Gúthwyn released his shirt and took his sword arm. She twisted it, causing him to cry out and drop his blade. Shoving it away from them, she closed her fist around his tunic once more. "Yield?" she repeated.

His chest was heaving up and down, struggling for breath; yet his eyes held hers, and though there was embarrassment, there was also something else that she could not quite place. "Yield," he at last said.

She grinned, and was about to get off of him when she heard her name being called. With a rush, all of the surrounding noises returned in their fullness—mutterings, the sounds of feet hurrying away.

The reason for this became evident when she saw Éomer striding towards her, every movement terse. "Sister, what do you think you are doing?" her brother demanded, his eyes narrowed.

With a flush, Gúthwyn realized what she and Tun must have looked like; from the expression on his face, so did her champion. Hastily, she got to her feet and offered him a hand. He took it, his cheeks now glowing a bright red.

"Sparring," she answered, determinedly avoiding the others' gazes. Beside her, Tun shifted awkwardly on his feet.

"He tripped on a helmet," Gamling explained to Éomer, glancing at Tun. "They both fell."

"Why were you not watching where you were going?" Éomer asked Tun coldly, though his eyes were burning. Gúthwyn hastened to intervene.

"It was my fault," she began. "I was—"

"Sister, kindly do not interrupt me," Éomer breathed angrily, and she fell silent as he turned his attention back to her champion. "Answer me."

"I was trying to fend off her attacks, my lord," Tun replied. "I am sorry, I should have never—"

"And yet you did!" Éomer spat harshly. Gúthwyn thought this was slightly unfair.

"Éomer," she said calmly, "he stumbled. You are making too much of a fuss."

The moment the words left her lips, she knew she had said the wrong thing. His eyes nearly turned black in their fury. "We need to talk," he growled. "Come with me."

Casting an apologetic look at Tun, praying that her brother would not punish him for such a foolish offense, Gúthwyn obediently ducked her head and came to stand by her brother's side. He put a hand on her back and used it to turn her around.

"I can walk on my own," she said stiffly, wrenching away from him.

His anger merely increased, and by the time they had made their way silently up to Meduseld she could almost feel it suffocating her. Her own irritation grew also. Why was Éomer so insistent on protecting her from every single male friend she had made? None of them were dishonorable—_well,_ she thought with a sardonic grin, _perhaps except for Lebryn_—and Tun was probably the least so.

The doors opened into the Golden Hall, and no sooner had they closed behind the two siblings than Éomer turned around and hissed, "Did you have _any_ idea what that looked like?"

"It was a mistake!" Gúthwyn protested. Over his shoulder, she saw some of the advisors glancing in their direction. Cobryn was among them.

"Oh, _now_ you think it was a mistake," Éomer retorted. "Yet not before all of the royal guards had the opportunity to see my sister rolling around in the dirt with her champion! Gúthwyn, the days of you wrestling with the boys are long gone. You are twenty-one now!"

"He _tripped,_" Gúthwyn responded witheringly, for all her tone starting to inch away from Éomer. She did not like the way he was yelling at her.

"And because of his clumsiness you had to fall down on top of him?" Éomer demanded. "This is exactly why I did not want you training with the men! I have half a mind to forbid you doing so!"

"You are not Théoden," Gúthwyn said furiously. "You are not answerable for me!"

"Yes, I am," Éomer snarled. "You are unmarried, and therefore under my protection. Do not make me angry with you!"

"You have been watching him like a hawk ever since he became my champion!" Gúthwyn cried. "And what has he done? This argument is not even about my impropriety, is it? You simply want something to blame him for!"

"Is everything all right?"

The two of them turned to see Cobryn standing a few feet away.

"My sister," Éomer began, breathing heavily, "was wrestling with Tun on the ground when I came to the training area."

Cobryn's gaze flicked onto her, one eyebrow slightly arched.

"I was not _wrestling_," Gúthwyn said icily, crossing her arms. "We were sparring, and he tripped. I fell down on top of him, and then we rolled over once! Éomer is overreacting! He—"

"What do you think, Cobryn?" Éomer interrupted her, turning to his advisor.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Cobryn took a deep breath. "Well," he said, looking back and forth between the two of them, "Éomer does have a point."

Gúthwyn's mouth dropped open.

"Both of your intentions may have been innocent," Cobryn said to her, "but that does not change what the scene looked like. Not to mention that it was with Tun of all people."

"What do you mean, 'Tun of all people'?" Gúthwyn asked, glaring at him.

He looked at her for a moment, as if debating how to answer. "He is your champion," he at length explained, "and you are his lady. People might start gossiping if they see you in such compromising situations."

"You would think they would have something better to talk about," she grumbled.

Cobryn smiled slightly, and his next words lifted her spirits. "That said, Éomer, it seems to me that it would take far more to ruin your sister's reputation than a simple misstep. You have little to worry about."

Éomer regarded him, clearly mulling over the younger man's words. At length he sighed. "I suppose you are right. Gúthwyn, I owe you an apology."

"Thank you," she responded, allowing some haughtiness to enter her speech.

"That said," Éomer continued, narrowing his eyes, "I do not want to ever see you on the ground with him again, do you understand?"

"Yes," she assented.

"Good. And now, I think that rather than return to the practice, you should get ready for tonight's feast."

Gúthwyn sighed, but knew that it was better to obey her brother's wishes than to dispute him over so silly a thing—especially since they had been in an argument less than a minute ago. "As you wish," she muttered, and turned away. Her brother was already appeased; she could hear him asking Cobryn where Gamling was. _For once, maybe he will just let this go,_ she thought.

* * *

In the dim of the Golden Hall, two heads bent together. "You understand, then, why I cannot allow such behavior to continue," the first one said.

"I have seen it, as well," the second replied. "He is too careless."

"I would take care of him myself," the other growled, "but I have no wish for another argument. Can I trust you?"

"Worry not, my friend," the second was swift to answer. "He needs to be disciplined. It has been long in coming."

"Good," the first said. "He has pushed his limits too far—I want him aware of that."

"I will see to it. What of the feast tonight?"

"Give him something to think about instead."

Gamling's lips briefly curled. "That I shall."

Éomer nodded, and left.

* * *

Tun groaned as he flopped onto a stack of hay, cursing himself for his stupidity. What on Middle-earth had he been thinking, to accept Gúthwyn's challenge? He should have known that no good would come out of it. Yet his senses had abandoned him—they always did around her. Once again he moaned, relieved that no one could hear him in the quiet of the stables.

_What is wrong with me?_ he wondered, sitting up and putting his face in his hands. _Why am I so foolish around her?_

He could say without a doubt that no woman had affected him as much as she had. They had been best friends up until her capture, but when he had learned of her disappearance he had tried to put her from his mind. He had been fifteen then, and had not wanted to contemplate the horrors she would experience, if the hunter did not kill her outright.

Upon her return, however… It had only taken a few days for him to fall head over heels for her. The strange sensation of being completely devoted to someone was alien to him, as was the way his heart raced whenever he saw her, or the way his skin tingled whenever her hand brushed against his. And her smile…

_Ilúvatar, help me,_ he pleaded silently. _I cannot think straight!_

But as he leaned back on the hay, a series of familiar daydreams forced himself into his mind. In them, he always worked up the courage to tell her that he loved her. She would immediately throw her arms around him, drawing close so that their bodies touched. He could not help but shiver at the thought, imagining himself being able to feel her warmth and breathe in the scent of her hair. It was then that she would press her lips against his, so soft and gentle that it became maddening. The kiss would deepen, until feverish desires took both of their hearts, and…

_No!_ he yelled at himself. _This is Gúthwyn you are thinking of! You have sworn to protect her!_

It was with a guilty flush that he remembered being pinned beneath her, having just had his sword taken out of his hands. Her face had been glowing with satisfaction, and for a horrible moment the ground below them had changed into a soft bed. Never had he felt so wretched, so ashamed of himself, than when he had come back to his senses. To have such thoughts about his lady, as if she were no more than a common whore, had filled him with disgust.

To make things worse, Éomer had arrived on the scene then. He would never forget the look of shock and fury that had crossed the king's face when he had seen Tun lying beneath his sister—he might even have seen the brief, unbidden urge in his eyes. As he thought of this, Tun cringed terrifically. How stupid could he have possibly been, to allow his emotions to betray him in such a manner?

Yet she had not been angry with him. She had defended him, though it had earned her the ire of her brother. Hope stirred in his veins. Would she want to speak to him afterwards? Or would Éomer instead order him to not so much as look at her, or even send him away to a remote part of Rohan? He would not be able to bear it if that were the case. To be separated from his lady… To not be able to see her smiles and hear her laughter, and know that some of it was brought about by him…

His hands clenched into fists. He could not stand to be parted from Gúthwyn. But he knew that he had conducted himself improperly, and in Éomer's eyes might be considered a danger to his sister. Why did he always behave like an idiot around her? It was as if she made him so blind that he could not see how ridiculous his actions were. The merest word from her made him straighten to attention; a fleeting glimpse of her was enough to set his body afire.

He was in the midst of berating himself once more when he heard the door to the stables open. "Tun?" someone called, and he repressed a groan: It was Gamling.

The sound of his captain making his way down the aisle, stopping now and then to check the stalls, met his ears. Knowing that it was no good trying to hide, he got to his feet and dusted himself off of the hay. When he reached the stall door, Gamling was already waiting for him, having heard the noise and gone over to investigate. "I thought you might have been in here," he said.

Tun did not have the opportunity to respond before he was backhanded across the face. His head twisted to the side, and when he turned back to gape at Gamling he was suddenly very glad the door was between them: The man's eyes were narrowed so intently that they were but thin slits on his face.

"What was that for?" he demanded, though with a sinking feeling in his stomach thought he knew the answer.

"For being a fool," Gamling responded sharply. "What were you thinking?"

Groaning, Tun replied, "I was just asking myself that."

Gamling eyed him for a moment. "Did you trip on purpose?" he asked.

Tun stared at him in shock. "No!" he at last cried. "I would never—Gamling, it was an accident!"

"An accident that may very well cost you the king's favor!" Gamling barked. "Do you not see how fiercely he protects his sisters? How he is ready to instantly swoop down upon any man who so much as speaks to them?"

"Yet he relented in the end to Faramir," Tun argued, recalling his uncle's words from the party in Gondor.

Gamling's eyes widened, and the next instant Tun had received another blow to his head. "Do you have any idea what you are saying?" the captain hissed, anger in all of his features. "You are speaking of marriage, boy! Do not make the mistake of thinking that Éomer has any intent to wed her off to anyone yet, least of all to you!"

The words hit Tun like a third slap across his face. "I did not mean—" he began, horrified that he had allowed his private thoughts to spill out so easily.

"Yes, you did," Gamling cut him off, pinning him down with his keen gaze. "Éomer is not the only one who has noticed how your eyes linger on her whenever you are within thirty feet of each other! Do you think we are all blind and deaf to your clumsy attempts at courting her? You need to learn to remember your place! You are a soldier of the king, not a noble!"

"I know who I am," Tun lashed out, stung by what the captain had said. "I cannot help being in love with her! If you knew how many times I tried to cure myself of it… But nothing works! Gamling, she is breathtaking… Her smile, her eyes…"

"If it is a tumble in the hay you want, go find a tavern whore," Gamling said furiously. "Stop your mad thoughts!"

"I do not want a whore," Tun growled, loathing the man all of a sudden. The next words flew from his mouth before he could stop himself. "I want Gúthwyn!"

"Get out of that stall," Gamling said quietly, his eyes glittering dangerously.

With no small amount of trepidation, Tun obeyed, wondering if Gamling was simply going to murder him on the spot or just beat him up until he had literally knocked some sense into him.

It was the latter. No sooner had Tun come out into the stables than Gamling had grabbed two fistfuls of his tunic and slammed him into the wall. All the breath left his body, and he gasped for air as the captain leaned in close. "Do not ever let me hear those words fall from your lips again," he snarled. "You are a fool, Tun! You think that just because you are her champion you are untouchable. Listen to what I say: Éomer is not going to let the two of you out of his sight after this incident. If you so much as lay a single hand on her when it is not appropriate, I will personally make arrangements for you to go to Helm's Deep with your uncle and never see her again! Do you understand me?"

Tun paled slightly at the threat, but under Gamling's grip he was helpless. "I-I understand," he muttered.

"Good," Gamling said, releasing him. His eyes were dark as he added, "I would suggest that you do not come to the feast tonight. If you keep your wits about you, you might be able to ease yourself back into Éomer's good graces. Until then, pray do not make so obvious your attraction towards her!"

Tun nodded bitterly.

The last thing he saw before Gamling's fist hit him square in the face was the look of furious concentration in the captain's eyes. The next instant, there was a loud _crack_, and he could only see red: His blood was spurting everywhere, streaming down his face and turning it scarlet.

With a cry of pain, he clamped his hands over his nose, but it was no use. The blood kept pouring. "What are you doing?" he choked out.

"Giving you something to think about," Gamling snarled, watching with unsympathetic eyes as the younger man tried desperately to stem the bleeding. "Learn from it!"

With that, the captain turned around and left him, striding towards the exit and not glancing back once. Tun stared after him in shock, but when the door closed he pounded his bloody fist against the wall. He had just realized that all of his words would likely be reported back to Éomer—who had almost certainly ordered Gamling here. _By the Valar,_ he thought in sudden despair, _what have I done?_


	18. Confrontation

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighteen:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eighteen**

With a sigh, Gúthwyn pulled the brush through her hair. She still had nearly half an hour left before the people started arriving, and could hardly wait for them to do so. After their argument, Éomer had spoken to her only once—he had knocked on her door and inquired whether she was yet dressed. Her response had been a civil "Yes, brother," but she could feel the tension in the air, and knew that he had not forgotten the afternoon's events.

She yanked the brush downward, only wincing slightly as it encountered a large knot. For the life of her, she could not understand what was so bad about the situation. Yes, she had been rolling around with Tun on the ground in front of a group of soldiers, but it had been an accident; neither of them had intended for it to happen. Not to mention the fact that Tun had proven himself trustworthy—and had she not wrestled with him nearly every day in their childhoods? It was not as if Éomer had never seen them do it before.

_He is just looking for an excuse to dislike Tun,_ she thought irritably. The Valar forbid that she had male friends! But out of all of them, her champion was the one Éomer chose to fix his energies on; the very man he had taken under his wing and trained to become a warrior! What made him so eager to rescind such a gift of friendship? Tun had never tried to harm her, and would have died before doing so. He was the only man on the training grounds who still fought delicately with her, yet Éomer persisted in his distrust of the man.

Just then there was a knock on the door, and she recognized Cobryn's voice as he called, "May I come in?"

"Yes," she answered, setting the brush down on the table and turning around to face her friend as he walked in. "You look good tonight, my friend."

Cobryn had abandoned his usual simple attire and was wearing a far nicer tunic than she had ever seen him in. For someone who was inclined to wear clothes that would place him in the category of a well-off peasant, he did not wear the new garment with any signs of stiffness.

"Thank you," Cobryn replied, a faint smile on his face. "Aldor insisted that I wear something decent for a change."

"Well, you do tend to dress… poorly," she commented, though smiled to let him know that she did not care in the slightest.

"I do not mind people having a low opinion of me. They seem to forget that it is never good to underestimate someone," Cobryn merely said, and Gúthwyn laughed.

"So that is how you do so well in diplomacy! People see you and wonder why Éomer allowed a peasant to sit in his council—your cane probably does not help matters—and then when they find out that you know more about what is going on than they do, they become flustered and cannot think straight!"

"There is more to it than that," Cobryn said dryly. "Shall I educate you?"

She shook her head firmly. "I have had enough of politics to last me several months," she muttered, taking one last disparaging look at herself in the mirror. Her long-sleeved, floor-length dress was brown, a color only mildly flattering on her. And it had taken nearly an hour for her to figure out how to do the lacings in the back; even now, she was not sure she had done them properly.

"I still do not understand why you refuse to wear white," Cobryn commented.

Closing her eyes briefly, Gúthwyn then opened them and said, "Because it is not my preferred color. Shall we go into the throne room now?"

He chuckled. "You have much to learn on the art of changing the subject, Gúthwyn."

"I do not try very hard around you," she said, shrugging. "It is often not worth the effort."

"I will take that as a compliment," he responded. "But there is one more thing I wish to discuss with you, and I will not be deterred."

"And what could that be?" Gúthwyn inquired, making a guess as to what he intended to talk to her about.

She was right. "What really happened out there with you and Tun?" he asked, looking at her keenly.

"Exactly what I said happened," she answered, sighing. "Éomer was overreacting. Tun and I were sparring. He tripped over a helmet and I fell with him. From there, we rolled over once, and I ended up on top. I took his sword out of his hands and placed my own at his throat. There is nothing more to it."

Cobryn sat down on a hard wooden chair and leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "Then why does Éomer not seem to think so?"

"Because he has been looking for something to blame Tun for ever since he became my champion," she said promptly. "I say he is being foolish."

"No, he is not being foolish," Cobryn retorted. "Those among us who have observed your champion now have much to think about."

"Observed my—Cobryn, have you been following him around?" Gúthwyn demanded angrily.

"One does not have to follow him around when he displays his emotions so openly," Cobryn said calmly.

"What emotions?" Gúthwyn cried exasperatedly. "That he is a friend of mine? Need I remind you that to seek the companionship of another is not a crime!"

"So you have no idea why Éomer would distrust his intentions?" Cobryn asked, arching an eyebrow.

"He has no reason to," Gúthwyn said defensively. "Are you going to take his side on this?"

Cobryn opened his mouth to say something, seemed to think better of whatever it was, and stopped. "No, I am not," he replied at length. "And it is little of my business."

"Thank you," she said, grateful for his neutrality. "Now come, let us go to the throne room! I am looking forward to the feast."

He nodded, and stood up. Together they left her chambers, going down the passage to where the children's room was. Gúthwyn glanced inside, but neither of them were in there—though one of Hammel's books was still lying on the bed. She smiled at the sight, and pointed out to Cobryn that he was becoming a most astute reader.

"Aye, he is," her friend agreed, a faint trace of pride detectable in his voice. "There is little he cannot learn, once he sets his mind to it."

Thinking of something that he had mentioned earlier, Gúthwyn tentatively asked, "Would you be interested in teaching him how to use a sword? I know you are busy, but if he wants to, would he be able to join your class?"

Cobryn looked at her, and she thought she saw relief on his face. "I was actually thinking about that," he admitted. "He has not mentioned the topic to me, but whenever we go to the training grounds he watches the men closely. Do I have your permission to ask him?"

"Of course!" Gúthwyn cried. "You did not need to request for my consent. I would love for him to receive some training. It is about time that he began to learn."

"Thank you," Cobryn said with a smile. "I will speak about it with him later tonight, then."

They continued down the passage until they came into the great hall, where already several people had gathered and were seating themselves. Cobryn left her then to sit with the other advisors, and Gúthwyn ascended the dais to where her brother was seated on his throne. "Good evening, Éomer," she said cautiously.

"Good evening," he replied, nodding at her. Then he smiled. "I always liked that dress on you," he said in explanation.

She blushed a little, not used to hearing compliments on her appearance from him—he was so often holed up in his council room that he rarely saw the light of day, never mind what dress she was wearing. "Thank you," she murmured.

Then she went over to the back of the dais. A small table had been placed there, and on it stood the traditional cup that was passed around at the beginning of each feast. Until her departure from Rohan, Éowyn had always performed this duty. Yet it had fallen to Gúthwyn in the past year, and though the first time she had nearly spilled it in front of everyone, she had gotten used to it by now.

The cup had already been filled, so all she had to do was pick it up and walk back to the end of the dais. She would wait there until everyone had arrived, at which point she would climb the stairs once more and present it to Éomer. Her brow knitted as she remembered that she would also have to bring it around to various guests… Which now included Legolas.

Slightly nervous, she stood on her tiptoes and gazed across the growing crowd. The guards had spread across numerous tables in the front, and she waved at several of them before continuing her perusal. Tun was not there… Then again, he was likely late. Erkenbrand was sitting next to Gamling, but both of them had their heads close together and were discussing something seriously.

The advisors were sitting a little ways back, talking quietly amongst themselves with mugs on the table in front of them. She sighed amusedly, knowing that even now they were probably discussing politics. _Perhaps later I will go over and convince them to do something else for once,_ she thought, grinning at Cobryn when he looked over and saw her.

Next, she glanced at the table where all the children were sitting, and was glad to see that Hammel and Haiweth were there. The latter was chatting animatedly with girls and boys alike, though Hammel remained silent. None of the others seemed to pay him any heed; she found herself wondering how many friends he had made. Now that she thought of it, she had rarely seen him with anyone his age. He was always with either her, Haiweth, or Cobryn. Frowning a little, she reminded herself to speak with him later—or at least ask Cobryn.

Not too far from them were the Elves. Gúthwyn's heart skipped several beats, but she determinedly rid her face of any nervousness. Legolas was at the head of the table, engaged in light banter with Raniean and Trelan. All three of them were smirking; now and then, one would make a particularly witty comment, and they would laugh at its recipient.

She did not let her gaze linger on them long, as she did not want to grow too anxious. But before she had the opportunity to turn away, Legolas looked up. His eyes met hers, and she froze—yet when he smiled at her, she was able to return the gesture. This surprised her, and as she lowered herself back down to the ground she found herself mulling over her encounters with the prince.

On their first meeting, she had thought that he was Haldor, and had literally fallen out of her seat in an attempt to get away from him. Things had gone downhill from there: Whenever he tried to speak with her, she had lashed out at him, refusing to be civil and always ending the conversation as swiftly as possible. It was not until her reunion with her family that she had actually spoken to him politely.

Yet the situation between them had not gotten much better. At Helm's Deep, she had wounded herself, and he had blackmailed her by saying that if she did not let him sew the cut, he would tell her uncle. His actions had only been done out of concern for her, and in the end she had relented, but she had been unable to conceal her terror and distress whenever he touched her stomach. A tear had slid down her cheek, one that he had seen easily. Feelings of shame swelled within her at the memory.

Afterwards, she had become even more fearful of him, and had tried to avoid him to her best capabilities. He had seen enough of her weakness; he, Haldor, and Borogor were the ones who had the talent of seeing her at her worst. Legolas knew next to nothing of what Haldor had done to her, and had clearly been shocked at her behavior, but for reasons unbeknownst to her he had not dismissed her as prejudiced or arrogant.

And now they had made peace… Yet what was peace, when her breath came short at the mere sight of him, and a flood of memories engulfed her so that she could hardly think straight? When the times she cast away those fears were only to comfort Haiweth, who could barely look at him without whimpering? When just last night she had thrown up after a dinner with him?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden silence. Éomer had gotten to his feet, causing everyone to cease their chatter and look up at him. "People," he began, holding his arms out in a welcoming gesture. "Thank you all for coming tonight. We are here to honor the presence of a good friend of mine: Legolas, prince of Mirkwood!"

There was a smattering of polite applause, but most of the Rohirrim instead swiveled around in their benches to look at the Elves. They were a subject of much observation, as after the all-too-brief stay of King Elessar and his companions, the fair folk had not been seen in Edoras since. Gúthwyn smiled to see some of the open awe on the younger ones' faces. Legolas merely nodded at his hailers, but she had the impression that he was not entirely comfortable in the open atmosphere of the Eorlingas.

Knowing that it was now her turn to partake in the brief ceremony, Gúthwyn walked slowly up the steps towards her brother. She held out the cup before her and gave a small curtsy, meeting Éomer's eyes only when she had finished. He received the cup and drank from it, then returned it to her.

"And now," he said, "let us feast, and be merry!"

His declaration was met with enthusiastic cheering. Gúthwyn signaled for the servants to pour the drinks, and watched as they immediately wended their way through the crowds.

"Where will you be sitting, brother?" she asked as Éomer came to stand beside her. "After I have gone to serve some of the men, I will join you."

"I will likely be with our guest," Éomer said, and she closed her eyes briefly before nodding. "If anyone troubles you, let me know," he added darkly.

Gúthwyn sighed, this time only half in amusement. "Éomer, you worry too much."

He chose not to respond, and they separated. She began circulating amongst the people with the cup, stopping now and then to talk to some of them. Along the way, she kept her eyes open for Tun. Surprisingly, she did not see him; nor did he seek her out.

"My lord Erkenbrand," she said as she came towards the Marshal. He had been in a conversation with Gamling, but they had fallen silent at the sight of her.

"My lady Gúthwyn," he replied, and accepted the cup upon her offering it.

After he had taken a sip and given it back to her, she repeated the gesture towards Gamling. Once both men had had their fill, she turned to Erkenbrand and asked, "Have you seen Tun this evening?"

They both glanced at each other. "He has duties to attend to," Erkenbrand responded at last, reaching for his mug.

"Duties?" Gúthwyn repeated, her brow furrowed. "Gamling, surely you did not assign him any on the night of such a feast?"

Gamling shrugged, and nearly drained half of his tankard. Gúthwyn frowned. "Does this have anything to do with what happened today?" she inquired suspiciously.

"My lady," Erkenbrand started, but she cut him off.

"Was it on my brother's orders that he was kept from Meduseld tonight?"

The two of them exchanged another look, and Gúthwyn felt her anger with Éomer flare up again. "Excuse me," she said stiffly. Ignoring their attempts to dissuade her, she strode away, nearly bumping into one of the servants as she did so. "Sorry," she muttered.

Despite her desire to find her brother and give him a piece of her mind, however, she had her own duties to finish first. So she set about finding those to whom she would offer the cup hastily: Elfhelm, Grimbold, and the advisors. The latter she did not have to search long for, as she had seen them with Cobryn earlier and knew exactly where they were.

"Greetings," she bade them, curtsying a little as she approached.

"My lady, you look wonderful," Aldhelm said, and then added teasingly, "If I were but thirty years younger…"

In spite of her mood, she laughed. "I shall tell your wife," she threatened, grinning as his expression twisted into mock horror. "In the meantime, will you accept the good will of the Mark?" She held out the cup to him.

"Aye, that I shall," he replied, taking it out of her hands and drinking from it.

"You flatter yourself too much," Aldor grumbled at Aldhelm. "As if she would want to marry someone like you!"

Aldhelm almost choked mid-swallow; when he had recovered, he glared at the other advisor. Those around them were chuckling. "You are no fine specimen either," he muttered.

"Neither of you are," Cobryn countered, "and had you been thirty years younger, you would have likely found your heads severed from your necks by Éomer's sword!"

Aldhelm laughed heartily at this, and Aldor smiled wryly, but at the mention of her brother Gúthwyn's eyes narrowed.

Noting this, Cobryn asked quietly, "Is something wrong?"

She shook her head, for even though her brother's actions had frustrated her, she would not stoop to scorning him behind his back. "I was just lost in my thoughts," she explained. In order to avoid his gaze, she offered the cup to Aldor. The advisor took it, and when he was done she passed it around to the others. Cobryn was the last to receive it; he looked at her keenly as he drank, but she determinedly rid her face of her emotions.

"Have you seen Lebryn?" she questioned, hoping to get his mind fixed on something else.

"No," he replied, "though you will likely find him if you ask one of the maidens."

Gúthwyn smiled, knowing that he was right. Ever since their return to Rohan, Lebryn had wasted no time in finding all of the busiest taverns. It had been a long time since she had carried on a conversation with him for more than a few minutes; most of the time they bantered back and forth, as well, and did not actually talk of anything meaningful. She decided that she would attempt to change that tonight.

"Well, I shall be going," she said as Cobryn handed the cup back to her. By now, she had finished making her rounds—with the exception of Legolas—and could now focus her attention on a certain family member of hers.

"Have fun," Cobryn bade her. She thanked him and left, glancing once back over her shoulder. The men had already resumed their talk of politics.

Rolling her eyes, she was about to go to the table where her brother now sat when she saw Haiweth coming towards her. "Hello, little one," she addressed the girl happily. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

Haiweth nodded. "Everyone likes my dress," she said proudly.

"I am glad to hear that," Gúthwyn replied, smiling. She shifted the cup over to her left hand and placed her right on the girl's shoulder. "Would you like to come with me to see Éomer, or are you going to dance?"

Musicians had been playing since the feast's beginning, and she could see numerous children whirling about and clapping their hands in time to the songs.

"I want to go with you," Haiweth said firmly.

Together they made their way over to where Éomer was sitting with some of the guards. Gúthwyn's heart hammered frantically in her chest as she realized that Legolas was with them, speaking quietly with her brother. _Breathe,_ she reminded herself. _Do not be foolish._

Yet she had to stop then, for Haiweth had slowed, and now looked reluctant to accompany her. "I think I want to dance now," she muttered, glancing at Legolas.

"Are you sure?" Gúthwyn asked concernedly, saddened that Haiweth was also afraid of the Elf.

Haiweth nodded, and all but ran away from her. Gúthwyn watched her go, sighing. Now she would be on her own to confront Legolas and Éomer. _Do not be such a weakling,_ she berated herself the instant the thought crossed her mind. _You are _friends_ with Legolas. Remember that!_

Steeling herself for what would be an unpleasant task, she took a deep breath and walked towards the table. Gléowine, a retired minstrel of Théoden, was the first to notice her.

"My lady Gúthwyn!" he exclaimed as she approached. Legolas and Éomer, who had been discussing horses, quickly looked up at his words.

"My lord," she said to Gléowine, nodding her head. Clutching the cup tightly in her hands and willing them not to shake, she turned to Legolas. For a moment, words failed her as the prince's eyes met hers. Then she recollected herself. "Will you drink from the cup, my lord?" she asked, standing a few feet away from him and holding it out.

"Thank you, Gúthwyn," he said, receiving it gracefully and drinking from it. "How are you this evening?" he inquired as he handed it back to her.

"Well, thank you," she replied, and moved around his seat to where Éomer was. She sat down on the bench beside him.

"Have you seen Gamling?" her brother questioned, glancing at her briefly before taking a sip from his tankard. "I wanted to talk to him."

"Yes, I have," Gúthwyn responded, her voice turning cold. "And as a matter of fact, I learned something from him that is most displeasing."

Éomer raised his eyebrows, and Legolas cast a curious look at her.

"Do you deny that you ordered Tun to stay away from the Golden Hall tonight?" she demanded. "There are no _duties_ that he needs to see to, are there?"

Éomer sighed, suddenly taking a great interest in the swirling contents of his mug. "Gúthwyn, let us not speak of your champion here."

"Éomer!" she cried in exasperation, not caring that some of the Riders were beginning to stare. "Why did you do that?"

"Sister—"

"Answer me, _brother,_" she said, her words deadly quiet. "Do you deny that which I accuse you of?"

He took a deep breath and looked at her. "I did tell Gamling," he admitted, "that it would be best for Tun to… keep his distance for awhile."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened. "How could you be so unreasonable?" she hissed. "He has done nothing!"

"Oh, nothing indeed!" Éomer retorted. "I just come to the training grounds and find you lying on top of him, and that is nothing!"

Though Legolas did not say anything, his eyes narrowed slightly, and they darted once to her. She felt an angry flush coming to her face. "I told you that he tripped!" she exclaimed. "Are you calling me a liar, then? Or can you not comprehend the idea of me having a close male friend, and have decided to rid yourself of the inconvenience?"

"For the record," Éomer began furiously, "you have not had a single female friend in your life! No, Gúthwyn, it is not Tun's gender that bothers me. It is how improperly he behaves around you!"

"You always say that," she snarled, clenching her fist so tightly around the cup that she would not have been surprised if it had broken. "And you are wrong, Éomer! He is kind and caring and considerate, qualities which _you_ are lacking at the moment!"

Éomer slammed his fist down on the table. Everyone who had been trying not to listen to their conversation now abandoned all such pretenses and stared openly at them: They rarely argued with each other, even less so in public. "So he may be, but that does not excuse the fact that he stares at you whenever you are near each other! Or how he seizes any reason to touch you! Or—"

Gúthwyn abruptly stood up. "How dare you?" she seethed, every muscle in her body straining to strike him. "You are despicable! Slandering a man's name and creating lies because you cannot bear to see him with your sister? I expected better of you!"

The last thing she saw before she stormed away was Legolas' shocked face.


	19. The Folly of Youth

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Nineteen:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Nineteen**

Legolas watched in confusion as Gúthwyn disappeared into the crowd, her back rigid with anger and her fists clenched. All around him the men were muttering, their surprise evident. The king and his sister were close; it was disturbing to see them arguing so openly and furiously.

He chanced a glance at Éomer. The man was running his hands through his hair, looking distinctly agitated. His altercation with Gúthwyn had clearly left him troubled, and he did not even answer the tentative probing of the others.

"Éomer," Legolas said quietly, hoping to get his attention.

The king looked up at him, weariness upon his face that clashed with the happy atmosphere of the surrounding festivities. Yet he did not say anything.

"What was that about, my friend?" Legolas questioned gently, hoping that Éomer would not think him prying. From what he had gathered, some incident or other had happened with Gúthwyn's champion—one that both of them seemed to have different accounts of.

For a long time, Éomer did not speak. At length, Legolas prompted him again; he appeared to shake himself out of his thoughts. "My apologies," he said tiredly. "You know of whom it is we were arguing about, correct?"

Legolas nodded. Gúthwyn was rarely seen without Tun—they obviously delighted in each other's company. He had even noticed the two of them holding hands, much to his surprise and wonder.

"Well," Éomer said heavily, taking him out of his musings, "today I went down to the training grounds, because I had the afternoon off and thought I might practice with some of the soldiers. When I arrived, all of the men had gathered around Gúthwyn and Tun. My sister had pinned him beneath her to the ground, and was all but straddling him."

Legolas raised his eyebrows. He knew Gúthwyn was a fierce fighter, but could not picture her in such a compromising position. "Did she not say it was an accident, though?"

Éomer's gaze was dark. "Aye, she did. But Gamling and I both agree that it might very well have not been unintentional on his part."

"Forgive me if I am too bold, but I cannot imagine Tun capable of such malevolence," Legolas replied, trying and failing to equate Gúthwyn's champion with whom Éomer was suspecting him to be.

"I do not want to," Éomer answered, "but she notices nothing about how he watches her. Therefore, I must do so for her. He, on the other hand, is older, and knows fully well how he feels about her."

"How much older?" Legolas wanted to know. In truth, he had thought Tun the same age as Gúthwyn.

"Three years older," Éomer admitted ruefully, "and though there is a twelve-year gap between Éowyn and Faramir, to me Gúthwyn is still so young. She has always been the baby of the family."

"She is twenty-one, is she not?" Legolas asked, feeling sympathetic for the man in front of him. He did not have any siblings, and therefore could not know what it was like to have to protect them, but he understood why Éomer felt an even greater need to do so with Gúthwyn.

"Aye, she is," the king said—"arguably the best time for marriage."

Legolas' eyes instinctively sought out Gúthwyn in the crowd, for the first time contemplating the reality that she would marry someone. Éomer was right; it seemed strange for her, a gown that would not quite fit.

He caught a glimpse of her dancing merrily with the Marshal Elfhelm before Éomer said, "Yet I confess to being selfish enough to not want her to… to become a wife so soon. And Tun's intent to marry her is clear. He displays his emotions too brazenly. Whenever I see him, he is either holding her hand or staring at her." The king's tone grew dark; his fists clenched.

"He would not do anything without your consent," Legolas reminded him, thinking carefully back on all the encounters he had had with Gúthwyn's champion. He was fiercely devoted to her, and had always sought to keep her protected.

Éomer sighed then, though he did not look the least bit appeased. "You are right," he said. "Perhaps I am being overcautious—and I am forgetting that you need not concern yourself with this. Forgive me."

Legolas shook his head. "There is nothing to forgive, my friend," he replied. "I myself would do much to see her happy."

The two of them fell silent afterwards, each of them lost in their own thoughts. With half an eye Legolas followed Gúthwyn's progress throughout the room, watching absent-mindedly as she laughed with the women and danced with the men. A smile came to his face when he saw her coaxing Hammel out onto the floor, the young boy looking terribly awkward with each movement. Gúthwyn was laughing, though not unkindly, and a glow was in her cheeks that Legolas had only seen on a few occasions.

He took a sip of his drink, and did not even mark its taste.

* * *

"Hammel, you are not having fun!" Gúthwyn scolded the boy lightly, ducking as she twirled under his arm. He remained stationary, a combination of equal disdain and discomfort on his features.

"I do not want to dance," he said, trying to pull away from her.

"You have been sitting alone all night!" she exclaimed. "You should at least do something!"

"I was about to find Cobryn," Hammel grumbled.

"I am going to be having a talk with him," Gúthwyn responded, holding both of his hands tightly and whirling around. He complied, though reluctantly. "Both of you do not know when it is time to stop discussing politics or your studies!"

She could not help but laugh, though the action was not malicious. After her fight with Éomer, she had been in a horrible mood, and had been contemplating on leaving the feast altogether—maybe even to seek out Tun and apologize for what her brother had done. Yet less than five minutes later, little Heahtor had come up to her, giggling, and said that his uncle had a message for her: Would she care to have the next dance?

Elfhelm had succeeded in lifting her spirits immensely, and she had found herself enjoying his company greatly. His quick-witted remarks and jokes had helped her to swiftly forget all of her troubles with Éomer, and afterwards she had not thought back on their argument once. As a matter of fact, she had not sat down at all for nearly an hour; instead, she had danced with what felt like almost every single guard in her brother's service. Her skills were almost nonexistent, and she stumbled on the majority of the turns, but that only gave her more amusement.

And now she had coerced Hammel into joining her, for he had been sitting the entire night and had hardly spoken to anyone. Most of the children simply ignored him, and often did not ask him to partake in their games. She would speak about this with him later, but in the meantime she was determined to draw him out of his shell. So far, however, she had had little luck.

Nor was she to get any. For it was at that moment that someone called her name. She and Hammel glanced up to see Lebryn approaching them, a brimming tankard in his hand and a grin on his face. "I have not seen you all night," he commented.

"However, I imagine that you did not lack for female companions," Gúthwyn replied, raising her eyebrows in an unspoken question. He merely smirked, and took a deep drink from his mug.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked her after he had swallowed. A teasing look came into his eyes. "You have already done so with all of the other men—do I not merit an invitation, as well?"

"Not with that in your hands," Gúthwyn answered, gesturing towards his mug. "If you could not hold your ale so well, you would be half drunk by now."

He glanced mournfully at the mead, and then shrugged. Turning to Hammel, he inquired, "Want to finish this for me?"

Hammel looked at Lebryn's outstretched hand.

"Lebryn!" Gúthwyn cried exasperatedly, striding forward and snatching the tankard out of her friend's grasp. "He is only ten! Do not be foolish."

"Has to start sometime," was Lebryn's reply.

Gúthwyn rolled her eyes. "My apologies, Hammel," she said, "but I am off to dance with this barbarian. Will you be all right on your own?"

Hammel nodded, and almost before she could blink he had slipped away. _Probably to find Cobryn,_ she thought resignedly.

Lebryn took her hand then. "What was that for?" he asked, pretending to be insulted.

"I hope I have not ruined your fragile ego," she muttered as they began to move around in time to the music. "I reckon it is too over-inflated now for me to do much damage, anyway."

"So says the sister of the king of Rohan!" Lebryn snorted, placing a hand on her shoulder to steer her through a difficult turn. "The pot calling the kettle black, eh?"

"You cannot even compare the size of our egos," Gúthwyn retorted, debating whether or not to step on his toes.

Lebryn's response was to whirl her around more forcibly than was necessary. "So we have come to a disagreement," he said, smirking. "What shall we do to resolve it?"

"I daresay you will think of something," Gúthwyn said, hovering her foot over the tip of his boot.

"Indeed, I already have," he answered. A sly smile crept up his face, one that briefly reminded her of Lumren's. She tried to ignore the shiver that raced through her at the thought.

"And what, pray tell, might that be?" she asked.

He leaned close to her, his dark hair falling over his face, and whispered in her ear, "A kiss from you might amend things."

The foot that Gúthwyn had lifted in the air came slamming down on his toes. He winced terrifically. "Have you forgotten who I am?" she demanded, making to move away from him. Inside her heart was racing: Lebryn may have been kept in check by Cobryn, and he certainly did not know all that had happened to her in Mordor, but his flirtatious comment had struck a chord deep within her that she preferred to keep silent.

Yet he merely spun her back into his arms. "Touchy, touchy," he murmured, though there was a slightly defensive tone in his voice. "It was only a joke."

Gúthwyn turned around in his arms so that their bodies were nearly pressed up against each other. She took her two hands and placed them on the bare flesh that was close to his neck. His eyes sparkled, clearly getting another idea. "Lebryn," she whispered, leaning closer. Thousands of nervous snakes were writhing in her stomach. "If I wanted to, I could strangle you right now. You would not know when I started, for it would be over before you could say 'kiss.'"

"What the—" he began, trying to pull away from her. She tightened her grip, and did not let go.

"However," she said, concentrating on keeping her breathing steady, "you are lucky that I am not so cruel."

"I ask you to dance and this is what I get?" he mumbled, though his eyes darted to her hands, and he did not elucidate.

"I am not a tavern whore, Lebryn," she said firmly, trying to forget all of the times someone had contradicted her on that matter in Mordor.

"I never said you—"

"Learn to make more appropriate jokes next time," she cautioned him. "If Cobryn was around, I do not doubt you would have restrained your tongue."

"He certainly knows how to use his cane well," Lebryn muttered unhappily, and she could not help but smile a little. As she stepped away from him, she replied:

"With your ways, I can only imagine that he has had lots of practice."

He glared at her, but she waved and left him standing alone on the floor. Her steps were light, though her mind was buzzing with what he had just done. What had he been thinking, to ask her for a kiss? _Does he, too, think I am a whore?_ she wondered self-consciously, glancing down at her dress. It was not too revealing; nor did she have much to reveal in the first place. _Or is he just being his usual self?_

She took a cautious glance backwards. Lebryn was already with another woman, and as she watched his hand slid down to her waist. The woman laughed, placing a flighty kiss on his cheek. _His usual self, then,_ she decided in relief. After all, Lebryn had occasionally flirted with her, though she had never allowed him to go anywhere. Nor did he seem particularly inclined to disobey her wishes: He always stopped when she told him to, and once or twice had even backed off if he simply noticed her looking uncomfortable.

_I am just overreacting,_ she told herself, trying to still her shaking hands.

"Rumor has it that you wanted to talk to me."

Gúthwyn whirled around to see Cobryn standing behind her, leaning on his cane and raising his eyebrows. "You startled me," she said weakly, repressing the urge to put her hand over her racing heart.

"What happened with you and Lebryn?" he asked, looking quizzically at her. "I do believe you stomped on his foot on purpose."

Gúthwyn shook her head, trying to inject some amusement into the gesture. "We had a minor disagreement," she said. "The usual. Only I think he had had too much to drink, for he wasted little time in informing me that a kiss would amend his grievance with me."

Cobryn's eyes narrowed. "I take it that was when you stepped on his toes," he remarked, and she nodded. "I might have a few words with him later…" Then he glanced at her. "Hammel mentioned that you were planning on speaking with me."

She banished all recollections of Lebryn—who, after all, had only been acting according to his nature—and smiled. "Indeed, I was," she confirmed. "What have you been doing all night?"

He seemed surprised at the question, but answered nonetheless, "I was speaking with the other advisors."

"About what?" she pressed, sighing a little.

"Relations with Dol Amroth," Cobryn explained, "though I will not say anything more on the subject."

She waved his secrecy aside, as she was not much interested in the politics of a country so far from her own. "That is not the point," she said. "The point is, you are not supposed to be discussing work at a feast! And now Hammel seems to have picked this trait up from you, and will not even talk to the other children for boredom with their antics!" She was not terribly mad at him; yet she did not want Hammel to have trouble socializing because of her friend's admirable work ethic.

"He has told me that most of the other boys tease him," Cobryn answered evenly. "I can imagine why he does not enjoy their company much."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened at this. "Here, let us sit," she said absent-mindedly, pointing to a nearby empty table.

Once they were settled across from each other, she leaned closer and asked, "Why do they make fun of him?"

"Because he sits and reads while they fight with wooden swords," Cobryn explained, lacing his fingers together and putting his elbows on the table. "They also find it funny that his friends are far older than him—and often cripples."

Gúthwyn was unexpectedly reminded of Borogor telling her about Beregil. _"I remember when we were little, instead of wrestling with the boys he would sit to the side and just write… He used to get teased horribly by the other boys, but he kept writing."_

"Have you spoken to him about taking your class?" she inquired, now wondering if Hammel truly wanted to do it.

"No," Cobryn answered, shaking his head. "I was under the impression that he was at least somewhat interested in learning how to fight. And even if he is not, I think it would be wise to start instructing him anyway. Perhaps it will help him make some friends."

"I hope so," Gúthwyn agreed fervently. Then she sighed. "I suppose it will not help matters if I intervene before then," she said. "Besides, you are starting the class only a month from now…"

"That is the plan."

"Good," Gúthwyn said, and then paused. Over Cobryn's shoulder she could see Legolas making his way towards them. Her heart skipped several beats; sternly, she reminded herself that she was not to be afraid.

Cobryn marked her shift of attention and turned around. "Hello, my lord," he greeted the prince politely.

Legolas nodded at him, smiling a little. "Please," he said, "call me Legolas." Then his eyes moved to Gúthwyn, who was twisting her hands underneath the table. "Gúthwyn," he said, bowing. "If I am not interrupting anything important, may I have this dance?"

It was common for visiting royalty or nobility to dance with their host's female relations, but though Gúthwyn had obliged with this custom in the past, she could not help but feel slightly nervous at Legolas' offer. Yet she looked at Cobryn, and asked, "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," he responded. "Have fun."

Gúthwyn now had no choice but to accept. She rose to her feet and nodded. "You may," she told Legolas, and walked around the table to place her hand in his. He bowed once more, and she had to restrain the memories of Haldor in the days where she had thought him trustworthy. _What a fool I was,_ she mused bitterly.

They merged with the other people on the crowded floor, and as they did so she sought for a topic of conversation. "I am still not good at dancing," she at length told Legolas rather sheepishly, feeling woefully inadequate as she allowed him to extend her arms.

"It takes a long time to learn," Legolas replied, smiling. "I do not blame you."

"Did you have lessons?" she asked, thinking with a faint grin back to Tun's attempts at teaching her.

Legolas snorted. "They were miserable," he answered. "My father insisted that I spend an hour each day until I could go for an entire ball without making a fool of myself. Needless to say, I spent many years with my tutor."

Gúthwyn had a hard time believing that, as his movements were more graceful than any partner she had yet had. "Surely you exaggerate."

He grimaced as he turned her around. "I wish I did."

She could not help but laugh a little. "If it makes you feel any better, I do not even know the first step of a waltz. But do not tell Éomer, or he may decide to take a leaf out of your father's book."

"If you are in need of a teacher," Legolas said quietly, "I would be happy to help."

Gúthwyn's face suddenly felt hot.

"I am sorry," he murmured, noticing her anxiety. "I should not have been so forward."

Taking a deep breath, she said, "No unnecessary apologies, remember?" Trying to calm herself, she added, "Th-Thank you for your offer, though I think it would be a miserable experience for you."

"How so?" he asked, still looking as if he regretted broaching the subject.

"I have a penchant for stepping on others' toes," Gúthwyn replied, and not a second later she had accidentally done so. A flush spread across her face. "As you can tell."

"I barely felt it," Legolas said with a smile.

They danced in silence for another minute, until Gúthwyn queried, "Will you be making Ithilien your permanent residence, or will you return to your home after a time?"

"I shall be living in Ithilien," he answered, "though I hope to be able to travel frequently back to Eryn Lasgalen. After all, my father will still be there; and while he may be strict, I would not like to be long parted from him."

"I know how you feel," Gúthwyn commented, thinking with a sigh of Éomer. Then she remembered that Legolas had been present during their argument. "I hope my brother and I did not make you too uncomfortable earlier," she said, blushing a little. "It is not becoming to argue in front of guests, but I did not want to let his wrongs go unaddressed."

She paused, holding her tongue before she could speak ill of Éomer. No matter how irritated she was with him, she knew he was only trying to protect her—unnecessarily so, but he did it out of love.

"Do you wish to talk about it?" Legolas questioned tentatively. He was swift to add, "If you do not want to, then I shall go no further."

"It is nothing," Gúthwyn said. "You heard most of what there was to hear: Tun tripped, I fell over with him, and Éomer happened to come in at the wrong moment. He seems bent on making something sinister out of this; yet Tun is the gentlest man I know, and would never dream of harming me."

"Has Éomer spoken with Tun?" Legolas inquired.

"No," Gúthwyn said, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. "But he managed to find Gamling and use him to tell Tun to stay away—" She sighed again. "It is no matter. I will speak to Tun in the morning. Or in the afternoon, as the case may be."

Legolas smiled. "I hear that you still sleep late," he said.

"My people do not lie," Gúthwyn replied happily.

It was then that the song ended. They came to a stop, Legolas lowering her hand slowly. "Thank you," he said with a bow.

"You are welcome," Gúthwyn replied, managing to do a curtsy. After over a year of practice, they were still awkward to her.

They parted then, and as she left the dance floor she happened upon Haiweth. The girl had evidently been watching her; as Gúthwyn gave a cheery greeting, she asked curiously, "Why were you dancing with Legolas?" Her thumb slipped into her mouth.

"Little one, what have we decided about that habit?" Gúthwyn prodded gently. Haiweth reluctantly let go, raising her arms instead.

"Why?" she repeated.

Gúthwyn picked her up, settling her on her hip and scanning the crowd for Hammel. "Because he asked me to, that is why. Shall I refuse a friend an honest request?"

Haiweth did not have an answer to that, and chose to rest her head on Gúthwyn's shoulder rather than look for one. "Tired," she muttered.

"Do you want me to put you to bed?" Gúthwyn asked, rubbing the girl's back soothingly. "You did not get much sleep last night."

Haiweth shook her head, but yawned as she did so. Gúthwyn was willing to bet that within minutes her eyes would be closed and her breathing even. "Have you seen your brother?" she asked.

"No," Haiweth said blearily.

"I believe he went to talk to some of the advisors," someone spoke, and she turned around to see Elfhelm. He, too, was holding a child: Heahtor.

Gúthwyn grinned. "I think it is someone's bedtime."

"Not tired," Heahtor said defiantly, though his speech was muddled by a yawn.

Both Elfhelm and Gúthwyn chuckled. "The folly of youth," he said. "They never know when to quit."

"No," Gúthwyn agreed, stroking Haiweth's hair. "And if they did, the world would be a drearier place."

Haiweth closed her eyes.


	20. A Surprising Companion

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twenty:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Twenty**

_She was cold._

_The night air around her was a mass of swirling mists, the moist droplets clinging to her skin and making her arms wet. Shivering, she wrapped her cloak even tighter around herself and took a step forward. She was being drawn somewhere, her feet moving of their own accord; but she knew not how, nor why._

_Instead she kept walking, passing the black remains of burnt tents, their shapes always looming suddenly before her. Gúthwyn was afraid, horribly afraid, but still she moved through the camp. Ever and anon she nearly lost her footing on the torn ground. There were pits everywhere, sometimes with bones in them. All of the skeletons were humans—they looked as if they had been caught running._

_She was in Mordor, after the destruction of the Ring._

_The knowledge made her skin crawl and her palms clammy, but she could not have turned back if she wanted to. Further and further she went into the Black Land, her figure swallowed up by the hellish remnants of Udûn. All was quiet and still; nothing moved for miles around her. Her breath rose in a cloud before her face, dissipating slowly into the mists and making everything even colder._

_Then she reached her destination. New shapes came into her vision, black and jagged against the white fog. They were the very rocks that she and Borogor had sparred behind, the very rocks that Lumren had pushed her up against and tried to have his way with her. Yet both of the men were now gone, one murdered almost exactly where she stood and the other slain in the forests of Ithilien._

_She shuddered, her every motion rigid and marked with dread. As she came around the shoulder of the rocks, her heart froze: Someone was there. Their back was turned to her, but as she drew closer she recognized the broad shoulders, the dark hair, and the strong hands that had so often held her and kept her safe._

"_Borogor?" she whispered, hardly daring to believe it._

_He turned around, and all her breath caught in her throat. His familiar brown eyes widened. "Gúthwyn?" he asked shakily._

_She did not know what happened next, only that she was suddenly in his arms and kissing his lips, nose, cheeks, any part of his face that she was able to. "Borogor," she murmured, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing their bodies close together. He held her tightly, making her feel safe. His mouth planted soft kisses along her jaw, causing her to moan slightly._

_It was then that there was a pinch on her arm. Confused, Gúthwyn looked at it. Her eyes widened in panic: It was a maggot. The creature had fixed itself to her arm and was sucking at the flesh._

"_Borogor," she whimpered, looking up at him in terror._

"_I am not Borogor," he hissed, and his eyes were no longer brown. Gúthwyn shrieked as maggots began pouring out of them, sliding down his cheeks and getting onto her. She writhed in terror, trying to get out of his grasp, but he grabbed her arms and would not let go. His face was changing, turning smoother and crueler. "You have already forgotten who I am?" he snarled._

_Golden hair._

"_No!" she screamed, hitting every inch of Haldor that she could. Yet he barely noticed them as he leaned forward. Gúthwyn cried out even louder as the maggots drew nearer, some of them beginning to find their way into her hair._

"_You are a whore," he growled, and then he pressed his lips fiercely against hers._

_Suddenly her mouth was filled with maggots, crawling over her tongue and sliding down her throat, choking and gagging her… Haldor's eyes started bleeding, and she was covered with blood and maggots and she could not breathe or think and everything was dark and Borogor was gone and—_

With a gasp of horror, Gúthwyn flung herself upwards. The candles were burning brightly around her, but they were no protection. Scrambling out of bed, she crawled over to her chamber pot and threw up. There were no maggots or blood in her vomit; yet she could still feel them crawling over her, still feel them inside her throat…

She retched some more. When she was done, and had wiped her mouth with a damp cloth, she frantically scratched at her head. For several panicked minutes she searched her hair for any maggots, but there were none. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps that made her feel dizzy. The world was spinning around her…

_Stop it!_ she yelled at herself. _If anyone saw you now, they would think that you had gone mad!_

In an effort to calm down, she sat on her heels and took several deep breaths. Her nightgown was plastered to her skin by sweat; she tried to prize it off, but it was useless. Uncontrollable shivers now took her. The walls of her chambers were closing in, threatening to suffocate her. Gúthwyn moaned and buried her face in her hands, trying to pretend that nothing was happening and that nothing was wrong with her, but when she next looked up she knew she could not remain in her room.

Summoning up the willpower to move, she got to her feet and staggered towards her dresser. Quickly she pulled out a thick robe, her fumbling fingers nearly dropping it in their anxiety. At last she managed to wrap it around her. The shadows were long, and she lifted the garment to just below her eyes so that she was completely covered. She knew she was being foolish, but she could not help her fears. If anything, they had gotten worse over the months that she had been out of Mordor.

Her steps slow and cautious, she carefully made her way out of her room, holding her breath as if she were afraid of alerting even the mice to her presence. As it was, she had no desire to awaken the household, and tread as lightly as she was able. The only time she halted was to check on the children. In a stark contrast to her, both of them were fast asleep. For once, Haiweth did not have her thumb in her mouth.

Envying them for the luxury of sleep undisturbed, she closed the door softly and continued going down the passage. When she reached the throne room, her progress was impeded by the knowledge that the other Elves had laid their pallets in the hall. For nearly half an hour she hovered behind the cover of a large pillar, debating whether it was safe enough to go forward. She could not help imagining that, as she was going by, one of them would reach out and grab her.

_They are Legolas' friends,_ she reminded herself. _They would do no such thing._

But the thought of Haldor's splitting image only made her feel nauseous. Then she wondered if Legolas was awake, and if he would go on a nighttime stroll and see her as she went through the hall. Her heart froze, and all courage failed her so that she remained where she was for another half hour. When she at last mustered the strength to move, she only made it as far as a single step.

And then she heard a noise coming from the other end of the hall, from the corridor where Éomer and Legolas' chambers were. She panicked, and all thoughts abandoned her mind as she skittered across the throne room. None of the Elves awoke, not even when she almost tripped at the end and fell against the doors. Hastily she opened them, praying that no one would see her.

Finally she burst outside into the night, her breathing ragged and her nerves on the verge of failing. It was with shaking hands that she pushed the doors back into place, and with a trembling body that she turned to gaze over the lands. They were dark, but above the stars were glittering, their light calming her somewhat. The wide expanse of land was something that comforted her, especially when her chambers seemed to shrink around her. She had been out here countless nights, often not going back inside until an hour before dawn.

Éomer knew nothing of these trysts. He would have stayed up with her, if she had gone to him; but he got precious few hours of sleep as it was, and she would not dream of disturbing him. So she put her own desires of having someone hold her and reassure her that everything was all right—Borogor was dead, and never to do so again—out of her mind, and tried to ignore the fears that uncoiled themselves like poisonous snakes in her stomach.

She had not even told Cobryn, in whom she confided the most about her unease in the night. He knew that she had occasionally had disturbing dreams, but if she told him the truth about how frequently they plagued her… Éomer would surely be informed, and she could not risk that. She had exposed enough of her weakness, and her brother did not need to lose sleep because of it.

Huddled against the chill, Gúthwyn made her way towards the stairs. She sat down on the top step, trying to make herself as small as possible so as to spread her body heat. In the day the weather was warm, so she did not experience much discomfort, but in the night she always had to pile at least three blankets on top of her in order to banish the cold. The maids clucked their tongues at this, saying that her misery was brought about because she was so dreadfully thin, but such comments were always followed by the offering of food, which served only to make her feel sick.

For almost an hour she remained outside, having no inclination to go back to her room. The terror of her dream still clung as tightly to her as her robe, managing to seep between the folds and thread its way through the cloth. Try as she might to stare intently at the stars and remember their names, hoping to take her mind off of Haldor, she was unsuccessful. _Why can I not let him go?_ she wondered morosely. _Why will he not leave?_

There was no answer from above to her question, but at that moment one of the doors opened. She had no chance to hide, and indeed was nearly powerless to do much beyond turning and watching nervously to see who it was. Her dread was confirmed when Legolas stepped outside, his golden hair glinting silver in the moonlight. Fear spiked sharply in her veins as he glanced over and saw her.

His eyes widened. "Gúthwyn," he said, drawing nearer. She could not help it: She edged away, pressing herself into the pillar as if it would protect her from him. "I thought I heard someone awhile ago…'

"I-I hope I did not wake you," she stuttered, remembering the proper thing to say. _Breathe,_ she told herself. _Think before you act._

"No, not at all,' Legolas replied, though he looked quizzically at her. "I often go out at night to gaze at the stars."

She could think of nothing to say of that, and pulled her robe even tighter around herself.

"Are you all right?" Legolas asked concernedly, now standing only a few feet away from her. Inwardly, she cringed. Because of their proximity he was towering over her, making her feel powerless against him.

"It… it is nothing," she muttered, her eyes darting back and forth between him and her knees. "I just… I just…" She trailed off, not entirely sure she wanted to say something.

"Do you mind if I sit?" he inquired then, holding her gaze.

"N-No," Gúthwyn answered, trembling. She watched as he lowered himself onto the step beside her, though he kept a three-foot distance. Nor did he look at her the entire time; his head tilted up towards the heavens, and she heard him inhale deeply.

"It is a beautiful night," he said quietly.

In response, she pulled her knees closer to her chest, shivering a little. All of her nerves were now on edge. Seeing Haldor—Legolas—at night was forcing her to remember all of her sessions at the former's tent. Each of them had been worse than the last. She had never gotten used to it; had never gotten used to the pain of him being inside of her, had never gotten used to the disgrace and humiliation that he brought upon her.

"Gúthwyn?"

She jumped a little. "W-What?" she asked.

"You look as if you are feeling ill," Legolas said softly. "Your face is pale."

Her mind briefly flashed back to her vomiting an hour ago. A little more vigorously than necessary, she shook her head. "I am f-fine. I just…" Again, she did not finish her sentence.

"You just what?" he asked, his voice undemanding.

For a long time she studied him, unsure whether or not to tell him why her sleep had been disturbed. She wanted someone to confide in, but he was nothing like Borogor—she would not be held in his arms, nor hear comforting words murmured in her ear. He would not keep her hair out of her face if she threw up, nor would he understand all of her fears and accept them without question.

Tears were in danger of springing to her eyes. Abruptly, she said, "I just had a… a nightmare."

She looked down as she said this, not wanting to see his reaction. Would he think her weak?

"Do you want to talk about it?" he instead questioned gently.

"Haldor was in it," she said shortly, wishing she could simply disappear within the folds of her robe and never have to see his—Haldor or Legolas'—face again.

For a time, there was silence. Then he began hesitantly, "Do you… Do you get nightmares often?"

Gúthwyn hesitated, and then nodded. "Almost four times a week," she whispered, the words difficult to form around the lump in her throat. "They never go away."

His eyes were filled with sympathy, but she found it nearly unendurable. "It is not so bad," she told him, trying to convince them both that it were so. "E-Eventually I fall asleep again."

"Is that the reason you do not wake until past noon?" Legolas wanted to know, his eyes fixed on her.

Again, she nodded. "They tease me for it," she murmured, referring with a pang to her friends and Éomer, "but they do not realize that I often am awake until the sky becomes grey. In truth, I get the same amount of sleep as they do. Sometimes less."

She sighed, turning her gaze towards the mountains. For years unnumbered they had stood there, barriers against invasion and creators of the sometimes monstrous winds that arose in Edoras. Now they appeared menacing, their height thrusting large shadows over the land. The Mountains of Shadow in Mordor… _No,_ she thought, shaking her head a little. _Your home._

"Is there anything I can do?" Legolas asked.

"No," she said heavily. "But th-thank you anyway."

They remained in silence for several more moments, until she tentatively spoke up. "Legolas?"

He glanced over at her, and she swallowed her nervousness. "Why are you so kind to me?" she asked, her throat constricting. "I treated you horribly for months, yet you do not loathe me as you should—as I did you."

Legolas contemplated her question for a few minutes. "At first," he began, resting his elbows on his knees, "I wanted to right what I thought was wrong. I did not understand why you hated me, for I had done nothing to justify it. Then…" Something rueful in nature crossed over his face. "I know you will not want to hear this, but then I pitied you."

She flushed, detesting the idea.

"I saw what Haldor did to you," Legolas continued in a subdued tone, "and I knew the source of your distress. But I did not want you to always have to see him when we spoke together. Yet then, when you were reunited with your family, you changed."

Gúthwyn nodded, knowing that what he said was true. Upon her return to Rohan, she had experienced happiness such as she had not for years. There was nothing like the sight of her homeland after long exile that could fill her with a greater giddiness or joy of life.

Their eyes now met. "I have seen how you are with your people and the children," Legolas said. "And it may seem bold of me to say so, but there is little I would not do to preserve such happiness."

Her eyes widened slightly, and now she regretted her ill behavior towards him more than ever. "I feel like a fool," she said bitterly. "I cannot even overcome such a simple…"

"Do not think less of yourself," Legolas replied, "because of what was done in the past. The War is over now, and you are free."

"That is what they say," she answered, and could not help but laugh. "There are no shackles on my hands. But there never were. Nay, it is my mind that is a prisoner."

She stopped short, embarrassed for having blurted out so much. "I…"

"You need not be ashamed," Legolas said quietly. "There are other men and women who were unwillingly in the service of the Dark Lord… I know next to naught of what they went through, or what you went through, but the same thoughts must haunt them day and night."

Smiling sadly, Gúthwyn responded, "Perhaps. Or perhaps not." There was no denying what they had suffered—yet she was frail, weak and beaten by Haldor's abuse. An experiment of the Dark Lord's, and a play toy for his commander.

Legolas shifted slightly, and seemed to detect her change of mood. "Are you sure there is nothing I can do?" he asked.

"I am sure," Gúthwyn said, trembling a little as she thought of her dream. "Thank you."

"Do not mention it," he replied.

Though that was the end of their conversation, neither of them made to leave. For over an hour they sat together quietly. Not a sound could be heard in the night; not even the scurrying of a rat or the whinnying of a horse. It was only when dawn was nigh that Gúthwyn stood and thanked him.

"I am sorry if I have been a bother," she murmured, thinking of how much sleep she had likely deprived him of. "You did not have to stay up with me."

"You have not bothered me at all," Legolas answered firmly, looking up at her with kind eyes. "Sleep well, Gúthwyn."

She nodded, and left.

* * *

It was well past noon when Gúthwyn made her way out of her chambers. Her rest had been peaceful and uninterrupted, something that was more than a little surprising. Yet she welcomed the reprieve, and was in high spirits as she went down the hallway. The shadows of last night's dream were all but gone; she had shaken off the horror, and had emptied her chamber pot of the vomit.

Some part of this, she thought, was due to Legolas. She would have never imagined that he could offer her comfort, but in a small way he had. It was difficult to explain—was it simply the fact that he had not done anything to her, as half of her had feared? Or was it merely that he had filled her need for company in the long watches of the night? He had not needed to remain with her, but he had done so.

Her musings were distracted as she came into the throne room and saw Éomer, eating his afternoon meal with some advisors and army officers at a table. A muscle in her jaw twitched: She still had not forgotten their argument. Nor, apparently, had he. When his eyes met hers, there was a smoldering darkness in their depths, and they were guarded. She looked away.

Then she flinched, for Trelan walked past her. He nodded as he went by, but her body had temporarily frozen and she could not respond in kind. Trying to ignore the sudden queasy feeling in her stomach, she watched him go and then looked around for someone to talk to. Most of the tables were empty, and their occupants clearly busy with work. The rest of the people in the throne room were servants, going around with platters of food or empty dishes.

Sighing a little, her good mood somewhat dissipating, Gúthwyn realized that she had no choice but to go over and sit with Éomer. The others would suspect something if she did not—and it would certainly look odd if she were by herself in a corner. Steeling herself for what would be a strained meal at best, she squared her shoulders and walked towards the table.

Cobryn was the first to see her. "Good morning, my friend," he said with a smile. "Up early, as usual." He shifted over to give her some room next to Éomer.

The other men greeted her pleasantly, and there were a few moments of light conversation. Gúthwyn avoided meeting her brother's gaze, feeling his presence as keenly as the nausea welling up within her at the sight of the leftover food. She was offered some, but declined.

Cobryn gave her a pointed look. "When was the last time you ate?" he asked in a low tone of voice.

"At the feast!" she said defensively, ignoring Éomer's glance in her direction.

"My lady," Elfhelm spoke then, leaning forward slightly to talk to her. "Your dancing skills have much improved."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied with a smile. "Though I would not abandon the iron boots yet!"

There was some chuckling at this, for nearly all of the men at the table had had their foot stepped on by her at least once.

"I take it you, ah… enjoyed yourself last night, then?" Éomer asked gruffly, reaching out for his mug.

She nodded stiffly. "Well enough," she responded, keeping her words cool so as to remind him that she was still angry at his treatment of Tun.

He took the hint, and did not speak to her for the remainder of the lunch. If any of the men noticed anything—which, with the exception of Cobryn, they likely did not, as she maintained a continual stream of chatter—they kept silent. Gradually, people began standing up and bidding them farewell. Some, like Gamling, were going to visit their families. Cobryn left to find Hammel and continue the boy's lessons. Erkenbrand was the last to leave, and in an effort to prolong the time in which she did not have to talk to Éomer, Gúthwyn asked, "And what are your plans for the afternoon, my lord?"

Erkenbrand hesitated for a brief moment, looking back and forth between her and her brother. "I was going to spend some, ah, time with Tun."

Gúthwyn glanced crossly at Éomer. "Will you send him my regards—and my apologies?" she asked Erkenbrand, trying to keep her tone as level as possible.

"Is that really necessary?" Éomer interjected before Erkenbrand could respond. "It is he who should apologize."

She felt her anger with him flare up. "And it is I who have the meddling brother," she snapped: "The reason why he could not enjoy himself at the feast last night."

Erkenbrand shifted awkwardly on his feet. Éomer took little notice as he retorted, "He brought it on himself. Too little caution does he exercise around you! Even Erkenbrand acknowledges it."

She looked at the Marshal, her eyes widening slightly. Erkenbrand appeared as if there were few places he would not prefer to be more than in the middle of this argument. "I think it would be best if I—"

"What do you mean," Gúthwyn suddenly demanded, "'too little caution does he exercise around you'? The reason we were sparring so heatedly in the first place was because I challenged him to cast aside his delicacy!"

"Gúthwyn, let us not discuss this here," Éomer ground out.

"No, let us," Gúthwyn replied icily. "I think it is _you_ who owe him an apology. How dare you accuse him of such dishonor?"

"It is only too obvious!" her brother growled, his fists clenched. "Again I ask you if you had _any_ idea what the two of you looked like!"

"It was an accident!" she cried furiously, wanting to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. "How many times to I have to tell you?"

"That is not the point!" he roared.

"_Then what is?_" Gúthwyn shrieked, leaping to her feet. "What is it, Éomer? Tell me why you hate him! What is your point?"

There was a dead silence in the hall. Erkenbrand stared, shocked, at the two of them; Éomer did not speak. Nor did any of the other servants who had gathered in the room. For nearly a full minute, she waited. Still, her brother did not respond.

"You are pathetic," she at last snarled, and stalked furiously away.


	21. Moonlight on a Pale Face

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twenty-One:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Gúthwyn did not speak to Éomer for the rest of the day. Her blood boiled at the mere thought of him; the unlucky men she chose to spar with on the training grounds experienced the brunt of her wrath. She fought even fiercer than usual, channeling all of her rage onto the unfortunate guards. Occasionally, one of them would tentatively ask what was wrong, but someone would inevitably lean over and mutter in their ear the news of her heated argument with the king. Her anger was fueled even more when Tun did not show up.

She had apologized to her partners afterwards, as some of them were complaining of soreness. In truth, she really did feel bad about taking her frustration out of them—they certainly had done nothing to her. But she knew that if she were to confront the source of her feelings, the situation would already get worse. Practically all of Edoras now knew about her and Éomer's altercation, as many of the servants present during it had let their tongues wag.

Now she was in the empty stables, absent-mindedly grooming Heorot as she sorted over her troubles. "I do not understand him at all," she muttered to the animal, running a brush through his mane. Heorot serenely swallowed the rest of his carrot.

Ignoring the fact that her horse could not respond to her, Gúthwyn continued irritably. "Besides, I thought we had resolved the matter before the feast! And suddenly he decides to disregard that? What is wrong with him?"

"My lady?"

She jumped, and quickly turned to see Tun standing in the doorway. "Tun!" she exclaimed, setting aside Heorot's brush and going out of the stall.

The dying sunlight was behind her champion, making his hair seem golden. At first she could not read the expression on his face, but as she drew closer she saw that his brown eyes were even darker than usual. "I hope you were not talking about me?" he asked, attempting to smile. Yet he could not hold her gaze for long, and looked at the ground.

"No, not at all," Gúthwyn assured him, and then frowned. "I was talking about Éomer."

His eyes widened. "My lady, I am so sorry," he murmured, a flush creeping over his cheeks. "I never intended to—I never wanted to—"

"Tun, you have nothing to apologize for!" Gúthwyn hastily told him. "It is Éomer who is overreacting, he—"

"He is right," Tun interrupted her quietly. "I should never have accepted your challenge. And…" he paused hesitantly. "I heard that the two of you got into an argument about the incident," he admitted.

"Because he was being an ignorant fool and refusing to acknowledge that it was an accident!" Gúthwyn exclaimed hotly.

"My lady, please," Tun said, looking pained. "I do not want you to be fighting with him on my account. I am not worth an estrangement. That is why I have sought you out."

She knitted her brow, confused. "What do you mean?"

It took him longer to work up the nerve to speak. He shifted back and forth, scuffed his feet into the ground, and fiddled with his hands before he took a deep breath. "I am leaving with Erkenbrand next month to go to Helm's Deep," he at last blurted out.

Gúthwyn's eyes widened in shock. "Tun, no!" she cried. "Is this Éomer's doing?"

"My uncle and I have discussed it together," Tun said dejectedly, "and we both agree that it is for the best."

"But… how?" Gúthwyn asked, bewildered. "You have done nothing!"

"My lady, I do not wish to leave you," Tun responded earnestly, his eyes laced with pain. "Yet I cannot let another mishap occur. Your brother already suspects me of being untrustworthy."

"Can you not… Can you not just avoid sparring with me?" she wanted to know.

"I could," he said, "but if I go away for a long time, then perhaps this situation can be forgotten. People will talk, my lady. They have already started talking."

"How long?" she demanded, her voice sounding oddly strangled. "How long will you be at Helm's Deep?"

He fell silent, staring at the floor.

"Tun."

At last he looked up. "A year," he replied hoarsely.

For a full minute Gúthwyn froze, gaping at him in horror. She could not even begin to imagine life in Edoras without him—how many times had he lifted her spirits with his carefree jokes? How often had she sparred with him until the sun began falling and they were forced to call it quits? How many valiantly attempted and gloriously failed dancing lessons had he given her? How much laughter had they shared together over the past year?

When she at last got her voice back, she choked out, "Why are you doing this?"

"My lady," he began. She cut him off.

"How can you let _him_ do this? He is condemning you, even though you are innocent!"

"Gúthwyn," Tun said, and the sound of her name falling from his lips was enough to silence her. Even he seemed surprised. "Please, this has nothing to do with your brother. He was not present when the matter was debated. It is of my own will that I am leaving."

"Why would you want to leave?" Gúthwyn asked, struggling to swallow the lump in her throat.

"Because if I do not," Tun answered somberly, "Éomer may never forgive me."

"I will speak to him," Gúthwyn said immediately. "I will _force_ him to forgive you!"

And she turned around and would have marched straight into Meduseld, had Tun not caught hold of her arm. "My lady, please! It will only make things worse."

Deep down, she knew that her friend was right. Fighting back the wave of misery that was threatening to swallow her, she embraced him. "Will you at least visit?" she inquired as his arms wrapped tentatively around her.

"No, my lady. I cannot," he replied.

"Why?" she asked, pulling back a little and meeting his eyes. Hers were on the verge of filling with tears. Yet suddenly, through the shimmering haze that was her vision, she was able to place her finger on something that had seemed off about his appearance: His nose was slightly crooked.

Her brow knitted. "Tun, what happened to your nose?" she asked abruptly, reaching up to touch the bent area.

To her surprise, he cringed a little. "Nothing," was his swift answer.

"It… it has not always been like that, has it?" Gúthwyn questioned in puzzlement. She had broken Tun's nose once, when she was five, but she could not recall doing that much damage… yes, the shape was definitely different now. Then she saw something that made her squint. "Tun, is that blood?"

The rust-colored spot at the bottom of his left nostril could not have been anything else. Before her champion could answer, she asked sharply, "What happened?"

She had rarely seen him look more awkward. "Well," he began, stumbling a little on his words, "I, ah… it was a mistake, I… well, I tripped, and…" he trailed off, allowing her to imagine the details. Yet his explanation was not nearly satisfying enough.

A thought occurred to her then, and she demanded, "Did Éomer do this to you?"

"No," he said quickly, though something briefly flickered in his eyes. "It was my own clumsiness that injured me."

"A-Are you sure?" Gúthwyn asked hesitantly, thinking that if her brother had been in any way associated with the harm inflicted on her friend, she would show him how a broken nose felt. Or at least scream at him in front of the entire court so that all of Edoras would know of his dishonor by the next morning.

"Yes, I am sure," Tun responded firmly. "Besides, it is nothing I am not used to."

Gúthwyn could not help but smile at this, and then felt a wave of unbearable sadness wash over her as she thought of how much she would miss him. "Why will you not visit?" she whispered. To know that her champion was being punished in such a manner, all because of a simple mistake, was almost more than she could bear. And the fact that her brother had had a hand in his departure, however indirectly, only made the pain worse. Tun deserved none of this.

There was an expression on his face that she could not quite read. A sigh escaped him, and he shook his head. "I need to do this," he said. "For… For my own reasons."

"What reasons?" Gúthwyn pressed

Tun opened his mouth, closed it, hesitated, and opened it again. "My lady, I am sorry," he said.

"Sorry about what?" Gúthwyn's eyes narrowed in bewilderment.

He released her, looking distressed, and stepped away. "I must go. Excuse me."

Before she had time to realize what he was doing, he gave a low bow and started walking towards the stable doors.

"Tun!" she called, but though his shoulders tensed he did not stop. Gúthwyn could not summon up the energy to chase after him; he passed, as if a dream, through the doors. He did not return.

_By the Valar,_ she thought weakly, her vision blurring. _Éomer, what have you done?_

How long she stood there, she did not know. Only when a stableboy entered, and called her name tentatively, did she remove herself from her musings. "Excuse me, Breca," she said to him.

"Is… Is everything all right, my lady?" Breca asked concernedly.

She smiled at the younger man. "I am fine, thank you."

Yet no sooner had she gone out of the stables than her face fell again. Tun would be leaving in less than a month—how could they make up for a year of missed time in only a few weeks? _This is all Éomer's doing,_ she thought bitterly, clenching her fists. _If he had not caused such a clamor over so small a thing, Tun would not have felt the need to go to Helm's Deep!_

But, try as she might, she could not become angry with her brother. It was as if she no longer had the strength to do so. The news of her champion's imminent departure had left her dejected; now, she was fighting back tears rather than restraint. Without Tun, she would never have reunited with her family. She would have fled from Rohan, enraged that none of them had sought her out in the early days of her captivity. It was because of him that she had not.

Her feet found their way towards the stairs leading up to the Golden Hall. Half in a daze Gúthwyn ascended them, barely responding to the guards' greetings. As the doors pushed open, her heart twisted to see Éomer and Legolas speaking together not too far from her. They both glanced over at her arrival, the latter nodding and the former remaining still.

She approached her brother, folding her arms across her stomach as she did so. Éomer met her eyes briefly. They were dark with both anger and sorrow. Legolas looked back and forth between the two of them, puzzled.

"You got what you wanted," Gúthwyn at last said hoarsely, blinking away the tears that were about to surface.

Éomer stiffened.

"He is leaving with Erkenbrand to go to Helm's Deep," she managed, and watched as his and Legolas' eyes widened. "He will not be back for a year." Her breath was beginning to hitch. "I hope you are happy."

"Gúthwyn, I..." Éomer trailed off, at a loss for words.

"Excuse me," Gúthwyn whispered, and turned away. As she strode towards the hallway where her chambers were, wiping her eyes as she went, she heard her name being called. Yet she did not pause, and there were no further sounds of pursuit.

* * *

A gloom now settled over Gúthwyn, thick and dark; the bright sunlight and the cheery laughter of Haiweth could not pierce it. To make matters worse, she saw little of Tun, whom she suspected was trying to lessen the burden of his departure by avoiding talking to her altogether. Nor was she on speaking terms with Éomer, who had tried to initiate reconciliation several times—usually through a closed door. At length he had given up, and they had learned to navigate around each other. Though they sat at the same dinner table, their conversation was limited to him asking her for a particular dish out of his reach.

Surprisingly, she had spent quite a bit of time with Legolas. He was one of the few who did not press her about her estrangement from her brother or ask her—as several of the women had—if it was true that Tun was leaving because Éomer suspected a forbidden love between her and her champion. Nor did he nag her about her eating and sleeping habits, which the servants turned to once dissatisfied with her refusal to confirm or deny the gossip.

Instead, he told her about Ithilien and Eryn Lasgalen, and she in turn spoke to him of many Rohirric customs and tales. He knew she had little interest in the Elves, and took care to keep his stories centered around those she had already met. Sometimes Raniean and Trelan joined these conversations, although she tended to get nervous around them and was unable to say much. Usually, however, the two of them walked down the main street of Edoras. Gúthwyn felt at ease there, for it was the daytime and there were crowds all around them, so she was not ever truly alone with Legolas.

On the night of the farewell dinner for the Elves, Gúthwyn stood in front of her mirror, trying to keep her patience in check. It was one of the rare instances in which she had allowed the maids to prepare her for such formalities; as usual, they had pounced on the opportunity. Her hair was nowhere near as fine as Éowyn's, but it was certainly long enough, and would suffice for their designs. Unfortunately for Gúthwyn, however, who had been in a fit of loneliness earlier and extended the offer to the servants based on those feelings, this meant that she now had to endure a stream of well-intended criticism.

"My lady," Cwene scolded her, "you are as thin as a rag doll!" The older servant gave an impatient tug at the shift Gúthwyn was wearing. "When was the last time you ate?"

"This afternoon," Gúthwyn automatically replied, though as soon as the words left her lips she remembered that she had not, in fact, eaten all day.

Cwene _tsk_ed. "Elflede, look at this child!" she exclaimed. With that, she put one hand on Gúthwyn's stomach and the other on her back, intending to flatten the shift out so that the younger maid could see exactly how slender their lady's frame was. But with a surge of panic Gúthwyn wrenched away, drawing her arms protectively over herself.

"No!" she cried, though she could barely hear her own voice.

The chatter of the maids ceased, and all of them stared at her in confusion. "S-Sorry," she muttered, trembling. Her hands were beginning to sweat, and for a frightening moment the room spun in a dizzying circle. _Stop it!_ she screamed at herself.

"My lady, are you feeling faint?" Mildwen asked timidly, placing a cautious hand on her arm.

Gúthwyn struggled to shake her head clear of the mists that surrounded her. "I-I am fine," she replied, relieved when Mildwen let go of her. "I was just—never mind."

"Do you wish for something to eat or drink?" Elflede inquired, still sounding anxious. "You look awfully pale."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said, "but really, I am fine." Hoping to change the subject, she asked, "What shall I wear to the dinner?"

Though Cwene met her eyes and sighed, the other servants seized upon the task of finding their lady the perfect gown. Gúthwyn watched as they went to her trunk and opened it, setting aside her sword. _Framwine, I wish it were you about to be used tonight,_ she thought morosely. The upcoming dinner was not something she was eager to attend. She and Legolas had been speaking more easily of late, but the formal setting would make everything awkward again. Her brother and Cobryn were well suited to somber meals, yet she detested them and felt horribly out of place in her stiff finery.

"My lady, is this your diary?"

Gúthwyn was abruptly yanked out of her musings to see Mildwen holding up Beregil's poems. The maid was new, and had never seen it before. A cold chill swept through her body. "No," she said, taking a step forward. "No, it is not—may I please have it?"

Mildwen was about to oblige when a piece of paper fluttered downward and came to a rest on the floor. Gúthwyn's heart froze when she saw the familiar title.

"'The Warrior'?" Mildwen asked curiously, the eyes of everyone on her.

"Mildwen, please!" Gúthwyn exclaimed harshly, striding towards the servant.

Looking both terrified and apologetic, Mildwen swiftly handed it to her. "I am so sorry, my lady," she murmured with a bowed head. "Forgive me; I did not mean to pry."

Somewhat calmer with the small book in her hands, Gúthwyn sighed. "No, I am sorry," she told the young maid. "I should not have become angry with you." Tenderly, she replaced "The Warrior" back where it belonged, running her fingers over its words one more time before closing the book. For a long time she looked at the black cover, thinking of how often she had turned to this object in her despair.

"How about this dress, my lady?" Elflede asked then, and she glanced over to see the young woman holding up a dark-colored gown.

"No, no, no," Cwene replied immediately. "She will seem as if she is going to a funeral! Although the Elves were wondrously fair folk to have here, Prince Legolas not the least"—several of the younger servants giggled—"their departure is hardly cause for mourning."

Gúthwyn remained silent, and placed Beregil's book in the drawer of her night table. When she next turned around, Elflede had set aside the brown dress and had lifted up a white one. It was the same that she had worn to Éowyn's wedding.

"No," she said quickly, cringing at the sight of it.

"You need to rethink your irrational aversion to this color," Cwene muttered, taking the dress out of Elflede's hands. "Look at this, child! Any lass your age would give an eye to wear it."

"I should certainly hope not," Gúthwyn answered. "But they can have it, if they wish."

"Nonsense!" Cwene cried. "I insist that you wear it for the dinner, my lady!"

Gúthwyn raised an eyebrow at this, though her gaze was fixed on the dress. With the sight came a rush of memories… Hands caressing her stomach in the dark, and _beg,_ always _beg_… The hot breath on her face and the pain between her legs…Her on her knees in front of Haldor, trying not to gag as he filled her mouth…

She felt as if she were going to be sick, and took half a step towards her chamber pot. Then she remembered that she was not alone. Tendrils of nervousness seeped through her; her stomach was turning over and threatening to upheave its entire contents.

"Well, my lady? What say you?" Cwene pressed, sounding as if she were speaking miles away.

"Fine," she said quickly, wanting to get them all out of her room as soon as possible. Her hands were shaking. Familiar coils of panic were unwinding themselves within her… Haldor was on top of her, ordering her not to make a sound… He would kill Hammel and Haiweth… _"Crying is pathetic and weak!"_ She wanted to scream, but his mouth was upon hers, and she was gagging… Then all was black.

When Gúthwyn next came to, she was lying on the floor, her head pounding and her insides in an uproar. The maids were anxiously trying to revive her; she had barely opened her eyes when a cold wave of water splashed over her face. She began spluttering and choking, pressing a hand weakly over her stomach and curling in on herself. With her free arm, she gestured frantically towards the chamber pot.

"Someone find King Éomer!" she heard a voice cry. Gúthwyn moaned, attempting to shake her head, but it suddenly felt like a sack of bricks.

Then the chamber pot was brought to her. Gúthwyn hauled herself up on her elbows, leaned over, and vomited into it, trying to keep the noise as quiet as possible. One of the maids gasped; Cwene barked out some orders. Another person ran out of the room.

"Gúthwyn, lie back down." The older servant took her shoulders and began pulling them firmly downwards. Her head was kept off of the ground, resting on Cwene's knees. "Mildwen, do not stand there like an idiot! Get a rag!"

Seconds later, Gúthwyn's lips were being wiped as if she were a child just learning how to eat properly. She wanted to tell them that she was capable of doing it herself, but she thought that if she opened her mouth she would retch again.

"You do not have a fever," Cwene murmured as she placed her hand on Gúthwyn's forehead. "But your face is flushed, and—oh, your highness!"

Gúthwyn saw the other maids scurrying out of her brother's way as he came into the room and knelt beside her. "What happened?" he demanded anxiously.

"She fainted, my lord," Cwene replied swiftly. "And when she awoke, she was sick."

Éomer looked down at her, putting a gentle hand on her forehead. "Sister, can you hear me?" he asked.

Her head was throbbing with each movement, but Gúthwyn managed to nod weakly.

"Perhaps she would be more comfortable on the bed, my lord," Cwene suggested.

"Right," Éomer agreed. "Here, I will do it."

Gúthwyn felt herself being lifted in her brother's strong arms and carried over to her bed. The motions made her feel nauseous, even more so as he lowered her down onto the mattress. He had pulled some of the blankets back before doing so, and soon she was underneath the comforters.

At that moment, someone appeared at the foot of her bed: Hammel.

"Hammel," she whispered, trying valiantly to smile at him. The muscles would not cooperate.

He came to stand beside Éomer, and watched as the king propped her up against some pillows. The servants looked as if they had half a mind to usher him from the room, but she reached out for him. "Hammel," she said again.

The boy let her take his hand. "How are you?" he asked quietly.

"Fine," Gúthwyn answered, though her stomach was howling in protest. "Do not worry."

"Were you feeling ill at all today?" Éomer inquired, exchanging a disbelieving look with Hammel.

Gúthwyn shook her head, and the next instant felt herself turn a pale shade of green. She could barely hold it in until a bucket was shoved beneath her mouth; then she threw up again, struggling to keep her face turned from Hammel so that he did not have to see it. When she was done, her entire body was clammy.

"Here you are, my lady," Cwene said then, reaching over and placing a damp strip of cloth on her forehead. Cold droplets of water trickled down her face. Gúthwyn thanked her wearily.

"Was it something you ate?" Éomer pressed her, sitting down in her bedside chair and drawing it closer to her.

"I think it was something she did _not_ eat," Cwene grumbled.

Éomer raised his eyebrows. So far, he had remained unaware about her revulsion of food; Gúthwyn intended to keep it that way. "Did you not eat anything today, sister?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yes, I did," Gúthwyn fibbed. Hammel's gaze narrowed slightly.

"Was the water bad?" Éomer continued, bewildered.

"Not that I noticed, my lord," Mildwen piped up, curtsying as she spoke.

Éomer looked at Gúthwyn worriedly. "Perhaps we should send for a healer," he murmured.

"No, no," she said quickly. "Really, I am fine."

"You fainted, Gúthwyn," Éomer reminded her sternly. "Last I checked, that was not the definition of 'fine.'"

"Your highness, the healer has gone to visit his family in the Eastfold," Cwene said apologetically.

A curse escaped her brother's lips, though Gúthwyn's turned upwards in a faint smile.

"Maybe one of the Elves can help," Elflede said, her eyes wide with nervousness.

"No!" Gúthwyn cried vehemently, pressing herself against the pillows. Éomer put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"Sister, what—" he began quizzically, and then stopped abruptly: He had remembered. "By the Valar," he whispered, his face ashen. "I thought it was only—"

There was a long pause, in which the maids glanced confusedly at them and Éomer stared at her. Her face was burning from the scrutiny and the embarrassment. At length, her brother turned to the servants. "Will you excuse us?" he asked.

A flurry of curtsying and "my lord, my lady," met his words, and then all of the maids had gone. Gúthwyn was now able to see the white gown draped neatly over her dresser; she shuddered, and looked away.

"Hammel, you as well," Éomer said, though not unkindly.

Letting go of Gúthwyn's hand, Hammel nodded and slipped out of the room. Once the door had closed behind him, Éomer spoke urgently, "I thought it was only he whom you feared. Not all of the others!"

Relieved that her brother did not utter Haldor's name, Gúthwyn nevertheless shivered.

"Gúthwyn, why did you not say something?" Éomer asked, leaning forward. "I would not have invited Legolas and his escort if I had known you were afraid of them!"

"I am not afraid," Gúthwyn vainly insisted.

"Then what is that terror haunting your eyes?" Éomer pressed. She blinked, and edged further under the comforters.

"Éomer, please," she said, trembling. "I did not want to make a scene. I-I was hoping that I could… that I could forget him. Their visit has not been as horrible as I thought it would be. I am fine."

"If you are fine, then why did you faint?"

"I do not know," she lied, not wanting to tell him that Haldor still shadowed her waking mind. "It might be one of those short-lived illnesses in the stomach. Rest will do me good."

"Rest will do you good," Éomer agreed, but his face remained worried. "I will bring you some soup—perhaps that will make you feel better."

Gúthwyn sighed, yet she did not have the heart to refuse him. "Thank you," she instead answered.

"Shall I have one of the maids look after you while I am gone?" he asked concernedly. She shook her head.

"I will be fine."

He nodded, and got out of his chair. She watched him leave the room, and tried not to imagine having to eat something. Her eyes focused intently on the pattern of her comforter, but it was futile: Before Éomer returned, she had retched into the bucket another time.

"Here you are," Éomer said, handing her a tray on which there was a large bowl of soup. "Cwene wanted you to have at least half of it."

She cast a despairing glance at the stew. "Must I?" she asked.

"The broth will ease your stomach," he replied. "Also, sister, you look like you have not eaten in weeks."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said dryly, and tentatively put her spoon into the soup. With a quaking hand she brought it to her mouth, nearly spilling some in the process. Before she could lose the nerve she swallowed it, wincing as the hot liquid burned its way down her throat.

"Legolas wished me to tell you that he hopes you will be feeling well soon," Éomer commented, watching her face carefully to see her reaction. Gúthwyn took equal pains to keep her expression neutral.

"Will you give him my thanks?" she asked. "Or maybe I shall, when he leaves tomorrow."

"You might not have recovered enough to walk about tomorrow," Éomer pointed out.

"I am _fine_," she insisted. "I will be back to normal in no time."

"Gúthwyn, have a thought for yourself," Éomer said irritably. "You seem all too eager to dismiss your health in favor of your pursuits."

She glared at him, and with that simple action she remembered their arguments over Tun. He recalled them, as well: His face tightened, and he looked away.

"Well, I will be going to dinner," he said after a terse moment. "Eat, and pray do not rise from your bed. Farewell."

Gúthwyn's eyes dully followed him as he left, and once the door had closed she took a glance at her soup.

When the maids returned to light the candles, they found that only a third of the bowl was gone. Their lady's hands were clutching her stomach, and even in sleep she looked nauseous. The moon shone on a pale face.


	22. Forgiveness

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twenty-Two:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

When Gúthwyn awoke the next day, she felt no trace of the sickness that had plagued her the night before. Stretching, she yawned and wondered what time it was. There were a few shafts just below the ceiling that let in some natural light; from the amount, she guessed it was around noon. _An accurate estimate, knowing me,_ she thought wryly. Glancing around, she was relieved to see that the soup had vanished. Almost a third of it had she been able to successfully eat without becoming nauseous.

Then she remembered that Legolas was supposed to be leaving today. She swore under her breath to realize that she might have missed his departure. As the lady of the household—at least until Éomer found a wife, anyway—it would have been rude to not bid him farewell. With this over her head, she pushed back the covers and got to her feet, planning on changing into the first decent garment she could find and hoping that it was not too late.

Shivering a little, she crossed the room and yanked open a drawer of her dresser. She took out the grey dress on the top; from there, she made quick work of removing her nightgown before putting on the day outfit. A few strokes of the hairbrush later and she was adorning her boots. _Please, let me not have missed him,_ she thought as she went. She did not want him to think her too weak to give a simple goodbye.

A minute later she had entered the throne room, arriving just in time: There was a great mingling of Elves and Men in front of the doors, the latter ready to escort their guests outside to where their horses were waiting and send them off with words of goodwill. Gúthwyn edged closer to them, careful to keep a safe distance away from the Elves. She spotted Gamling on the outskirts of the congregation, and went over towards him.

"My lady, are you feeling well?" he inquired almost immediately. Several of the others, including Éomer and Legolas, glanced over.

"I am, thank you for asking," she replied, nodding at him. "It was the rest that healed me."

Knowing that she should go over to her brother and Legolas, Gúthwyn took her leave of the captain and made her way towards the two. "My lord," she addressed Legolas, slipping into formality and curtsying. "Forgive me for not being able to attend dinner last night."

"Your recovery was more important," Legolas assured her, "though we missed your company."

To this she flushed, and could not think of a proper response. Luckily, it was then that the doors opened. The entire group filtered outside, going down the steps onto the street. A small crowd of curious onlookers had gathered, hoping to see the fair folk one last time before they left. Stableboys had brought the Elves' horses out for them, and were holding the reins patiently. Arod was one of them: Éomer had gifted him to Legolas, seeing the bond between them.

Gúthwyn closed the gap between her and Éomer, though it was he who spoke first. "Are you sure you have recovered?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," she responded shortly, and watched with unseeing eyes as the Elves began mounting their steeds. Éomer sighed, but did not press her. It was like as not that any conversation would end in another argument.

"My lord," someone said then, and they turned to see Legolas approaching. Gúthwyn's stomach rolled uneasily at the sight of him; she surreptitiously rubbed her palms against her dress, hoping to keep them from becoming sweaty.

"Farewell, my friend," Éomer said as she did this, nodding at Legolas. "May your journey be safe, and the roads free of all enemies."

"Thanks to the deeds of you and Lord Aragorn, such worries are almost needless," Legolas replied with a smile. "And I give you further thanks, my lord, for extending your hospitality towards us. It was most graciously given and gratefully accepted."

"Say nothing of it," Éomer answered with a wave of his hand. "Your company was welcome."

The two of them exchanged a final goodbye, and then Gúthwyn's heart skipped a few beats: Legolas was now standing in front of her. "Thank you for showing me around your home, Gúthwyn," he said, bowing.

She gave a brief curtsy. "I hope you enjoyed it."

"I certainly did," Legolas responded. His eyes held hers, and for an instant it seemed as if he were silently asking her a question. She held her breath, confused and apprehensive.

"Sh-Shall we see you in the near future?" she eventually inquired, glancing up at him.

"I hope so," he answered. "I like this place very much."

A broad grin came to Gúthwyn's face at this. "Thank you," she said, glowing with pride.

It was then that Hammel and Haiweth meandered over, the former pulling his reluctant sister along. "Goodbye, your highness," Hammel said with a small bow. His eyes never left Legolas'.

"Goodbye," Haiweth repeated timidly, clutching her brother's hand tightly. Gúthwyn patted her comfortingly on the shoulder.

"You may call me Legolas," the prince said kindly, smiling down at the children. "Farewell, Hammel and Haiweth. I hope to see you again."

With that, he nodded at Gúthwyn and turned away. The three of them watched as he mounted Arod and navigated the horse between Raniean and Trelan's.

"Farewell," Haiweth whispered.

The Elves began making their way down the street, followed by a throng of people looking to cheerily send them off. Gúthwyn's eyes remained fixed on Legolas' profile, trying not to think of how much it was like Haldor's. Long after he had passed down into the lower levels of the city she was standing still, the wind blowing her hair unrestrainedly about her.

As she stood there, she became aware that she was being watched. Narrowing her gaze, she surveyed the dispersing crowd and noticed Tun. Her champion was sharpening his sword outside of the blacksmith's home; yet the blade was idle in his hands, and his attention was not on his task. Their eyes met, and there was a pain in them that she knew to be reflected in her own. Then the moment passed. Her vision became blurred, and when she at last rid herself of the silent tears he had vanished.

* * *

Without the delegation of the Elves, Gúthwyn was able to settle back into her routine with far less anxiety than she had experienced during their visit. However, things were not the same. Tun continued to avoid her, and as the days lengthened into weeks, and at last the time of his departure drew nigh, she found her spirits increasingly miserable. She had tried to speak to Erkenbrand in hopes of drawing something out of him, specifically a confession regarding his nephew's behavior, but after nearly an hour's wheedling had gotten nothing.

And as long as Tun would not come to her, she refused to talk to Éomer. It was he who had been responsible for this divide between her and her friend; she was resolutely furious at him for it. He had tried, once or twice, to reconcile with her, but she would not listen to him. Her behavior was rather immature, though she justified it by reminding herself that he had no right to condemn her champion for a false offense.

The night before he and Erkenbrand left for Helm's Deep, Éomer held a dinner for all of those that would accompany them. Tun did not come, and upon disappointedly inquiring she learned that he was taking care of all the last-minute preparations for the trip. She had wanted to go outside, find him, and force him to simply look her in the eye and say something to her, but she did not have it in her heart to make him do that which he was refusing to.

So Gúthwyn went to bed that night in a gloomy mood, her only comfort being that she would at least be able to say farewell to him the next day. Yet it felt that no sooner had she closed her eyes than she was being shaken awake again.

"Gúthwyn, get up!"

She stirred, mumbling, trying to ward off the hands of whoever was prodding her. Then she felt a sharp rap over her head.

"Cobryn!" she groaned, her eyes clearing somewhat so she could see her friend standing at the side of her bed. His cane was firmly clutched in his hand. "What time is it?"

"Shortly after dawn," Cobryn replied, and she gaped at him in shock.

"What are you getting me up for, then?" she demanded, irritated that she could not get a good night's sleep.

"Tun and Erkenbrand are leaving in half an hour."

At those words, a bolt of panic ran through her, waking her up far more effectively than his cane. "Why are they going so early?" she cried, leaping out of her bed and running to her dresser. Frantically she opened it, searching for a robe that she could throw on over her nightgown.

"They want to cover a good distance before they have to stop," Cobryn answered. "However, I think…" he trailed off, though Gúthwyn was not paying much attention. Cursing under her breath, she was now attempting to find her leather boots. She had left them around somewhere… Spotting them, she thrust her feet into them and hastily did up the laces.

"Are they outside or in the stables?" she asked as she strode towards the door. He followed her and said:

"Outside, I believe."

They hurried down the hall and through the throne room, Gúthwyn swiftly breaking into a run. Impatiently, she tugged at the doors, but it was only with Cobryn's assistance that she was able to open them. As they came into the early morning sunlight, she was able to make out the figures of Tun, Erkenbrand, and her brother. Hammel was hovering off to the side, watching the proceedings silently. Lifting the bottom of her gown and robe up so that she would not trip, she raced down the stairs. Cobryn followed at a slower pace; normally, she would have waited for him, but she was determined not to let her champion slip away.

He glanced up and saw her, as did Éomer and Erkenbrand. All three of them seemed surprised at her appearance.

"My lady," Erkenbrand said with a nod. She gave a brief curtsy, though her eyes were fixed on Tun.

Her champion could hide no longer, and he knew it. "My lady," he murmured, his cheeks flushing as he came to stand before her.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" she whispered.

He did not respond.

"Tun," she said, taking both of his hands. As if a reflex, his fingers curled around her own. "Please."

For a moment, his face contorted oddly. "My lady," he at last said, "I thought keeping myself away from you would ease the burden of our parting. In my selfishness, I could not bear to spar or walk with you and think that it would be the last time we would be able to do so together."

His voice was filled with the anguish he was struggling to conceal from her. "Oh, Tun," Gúthwyn gasped, and flung her arms around him, not caring that her brother and a dozen other men were watching. Tears threatened to escape her as she realized just how much she would miss his friendship and chivalry. "Take care of yourself," she murmured.

Tentatively, he wrapped his arms about her waist. "I will be fine," he replied, his voice soothing her. As they pulled away, he added, "For every day we are apart, a year will pass in my mind."

In spite of herself, Gúthwyn smiled. "Tun, you are too much."

"Not at all, my lady," he immediately answered.

Somehow, she found it in her heart to laugh a little, and stood on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Goodbye, Tun. May your return be swift!"

"Farewell, my lady," he spoke, and bowed deeply.

They separated then, him mounting his horse and her going to stand beside Éomer. A displeased look was on his face, rather resembling a scowl, but she ignored it. _The world does not revolve around you, brother,_ she thought angrily. Turning away from him, she waved to the men as they began steering their horses around. Several of them returned the gesture, including Erkenbrand.

Then her eyes met Tun's, and she felt as if she were about to cry again. It suddenly struck her just how long a year was. Four seasons, twelve months; how many weeks and days? She could barely see him as her eyes became blurry hazes. Yet as she hastily blinked the tears away, he nodded at her.

And so her champion left Edoras, not to see her for another year. When the last Rider had disappeared from sight, she made to go inside. However, Éomer stopped her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"That was a little unnecessary, do you not think?" he asked, frowning.

"What?" She looked at him in puzzlement.

Her brother sighed impatiently. "Kissing him on the cheek, sister, what else? You are only—"

"Éomer, stop it!" she cried, her voice choking as the tears hovered on her eyelashes. "Thanks to you, he is gone! Do you have to make things worse?"

She did not wait to hear an answer, and instead tore away from him. He shouted her name as she sprinted up the stairs in a blind fury, but it fell on deaf ears. The guards opened the doors for her, exchanging glances with each other, and she ran into the Golden Hall. Her footsteps did not falter until she reached the safety of her chambers.

* * *

The day passed slowly. Gúthwyn could not get back to sleep after Tun's departure, try though she might. Finally she gave up and decided to go for a ride. She was joined by Cobryn and Hammel, both of whom were conscientious in not mentioning her champion. Instead, they spoke of Hammel's lessons or the meetings that Cobryn had attended. Politics did not capture her interest much, but she was willing to listen. Indeed, she learned something to her advantage: Prince Imrahil and Éomer were still in negotiations about the suggestion of a marriage to Princess Lothíriel, and it appeared that neither party was unwilling to choose that plan.

Had she not been eluding Éomer so diligently, she would have gone to him as soon as was possible and demanded all of the information he had on the subject. But she restrained herself, and when she saw him later as she was having her lunch, she did not speak to him. Nor was it too difficult to keep her thoughts from straying to where he sat, alone, with a thick pile of papers—Haiweth was eating alongside her, and far from noticing anything amiss, chattered on happily as usual.

The rest of the day she spent either at the training grounds or in her chambers with Haiweth, continuing the girl's lessons. Haiweth was now able to read an entire passage from one of the books she had been given without faltering, though she still had some trouble with the longer words. It was no matter; she was only seven, after all, and had plenty of time ahead of her with which to learn.

Dinner was not as bad as she had feared it would be. Éomer ended up calling an evening council, and she chose not to attend it. She did not lack for dining companions, either—Heahtor and Haiweth had been playing with each other before the sky darkened, and she invited his family to eat with her. Elfhelm entertained the children remarkably well, telling them stories with motions and gestures that made them laugh.

Yet despite all of this, Gúthwyn still missed Tun sorely. Close to midnight she was still wide awake, sitting at a small desk in her room and thinking of all the times they had spent together. Most of them had been on the training grounds, but a sad smile came to her face as she remembered the feasts at which he had attempted to teach her how to dance. She was a hopeless pupil, but that had not deterred him from trying.

To her surprise, her musings were at length interrupted by someone knocking on her door. Wondering who it could be at this hour, she drew her robe tighter around her and asked, "Who is it?"

"Éomer."

For a moment, she hesitated. "Come in," she at last said stiffly.

The door opened slowly, and her brother stepped inside. He had evidently just come from his meeting.

"How was the council?" she questioned after an awkward pause. Her hands picked up a stray quill and fiddled with it.

"It was fine," he replied, leaning against the doorframe.

There was another pause.

"What do you want, Éomer?" she finally asked, sighing. She stood up, preferring to be on her feet than in a chair while conversing with him. "I should be getting to bed soon."

"Gúthwyn, I wanted to apologize," Éomer said, his tone subdued.

Her breath caught in her throat, and the quill slipped out of her hands. It fell soundlessly onto her desk. "It is a bit late for that, is it not?" Her voice nearly cracked as she said this. Tun was gone. The damage could not be undone.

"I never intended for him to leave," Éomer spoke regretfully. "You know I would not compromise your happiness like that."

"Then why did you say all of those things about him?" she whispered, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Éomer saw her distress and drew closer to her. "Sister, I only wanted to protect you," he said quietly. "I did not want you thrust into a situation that you could not get out of. And I admit that I overreacted—yet it was not my wish to send Tun away. I am sorry that it happened."

Gúthwyn closed her eyes and then opened them, trying to rid herself of the wetness prickling at her eyelids.

"You miss him greatly, do you not?" Éomer asked gently when she was able to see somewhat properly.

Miserably, she nodded, and her vision blurred again. He opened his arms, and the next instant she had buried her face in his shoulder, trying not to sob at the thought of how long the year would drag out.

"I am so sorry," he said, his voice laden with grief. "Gúthwyn, I am so sorry."

"Y-You are forgiven," she responded, and bit her lip against the pain.

He held her, and did not say anything when a few tears trickled down her face.


	23. Tidings From Afar

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twenty-Three:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

The spring turned into summer, and before long the season was autumn. With these changes came a difference in temperature as the winter drew nigh. Though it was but late September, and most of the people were still wearing their summer clothes, Gúthwyn could feel the coldness acutely. She began wearing thicker dresses, usually adding a cloak on top of the ensemble. Éomer often teased her for such sensitivity, and Cobryn had a good laugh over it now and then, but it was rather uncomfortable. Rohan had a mild climate; yet compared to Mordor the winter would be freezing. She was not looking forward to it.

It was at the beginning of fall when she learned of two things that had a deep impact on her. Both were told to her by Éomer in the same night. Messengers had come from King Elessar, bringing with them chests of treasure. Gúthwyn was at first baffled by these gifts, as she thought them, but the men who had borne them said that they had been found in Orthanc. Lord Aragorn and a group of followers had gone to Isengard and conducted a thorough search of its grounds.

This disquieted her, and immediately she asked Éomer, "Did you not know of this, brother? Surely they had to travel through our lands to get there."

He turned to watch the chests being brought into the Golden Hall by some of the men, and his voice was quiet as he replied, "Yes. Aragorn had written to me about it."

"Why did you not tell me?" she demanded, feeling a chill seep through her bones. To have gone back to Isengard and seen the place where she had lived for four years as a slave… to re-enter the Warg stables, and smell the filth and flesh and darkness…

"Because I knew that you would want to go," Éomer said. "And I knew that you would go into the Warg stables. I could not let you do that and see the horrors that Aragorn described."

"I was _in_ that c—"

"Hundreds of dead women and children!" Éomer hissed, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the Riders around them. "A reek so foul that even the most doughty vomited upon detecting it! Sister, if you had gone in there, you would not have been able to sleep for months!"

Even hearing of these things from a safe distance had her shivering. "D-Did you tell Cobryn?"

Éomer nodded. "I offered to let him ride out and meet with the King's followers, but he did not wish to journey to that place again."

Gúthwyn fell silent, mulling over all this. "Why did we get these chests?" she at length asked, trying to put the memories of her past behind her. "Was it payment for helping the King?"

Her brother's eyes darkened. "Those are various heirlooms of our house," he answered; "items that the Wormtongue stole when his power over Théoden's mind was great."

"That snake," she spat, her hands curling into fists. "He does not have the worth of the grime on my boot!"

"Aye," Éomer agreed, "it is good for him that he is no longer alive. My hand would have swiftly strayed to my sword, had the case been otherwise."

Gúthwyn's anger was further fueled as she remembered holding Chalibeth as her friend suffered a tearful collapse, and listening as the tale of all Gríma had done to the girl unfolded in its horror. The Serpent had tried to have his way with her, once; yet Cobryn, whether by his own intuition or pure luck, had arrived in time to intervene. She could still recall with revulsion every single spot on her body that his hands had touched. These were the areas she scrubbed harshly whenever she bathed.

"Gúthwyn," Éomer said then, and she blinked, realizing that she had gotten lost in her thoughts.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" she asked, shaking her head.

"May I speak to you in my room after dinner tonight?" he inquired, his tone serious. "There are some things I would like to discuss with you. This is only one of them."

Her curiosity piqued, Gúthwyn inquired, "What else is there to talk about?"

He smiled a little. "If I cared to mention it in public, I would have done so by now."

Though at first impatient with his secrecy, Gúthwyn at length relented. Now, for the only time in her life since Mordor, she was actually eager for the approach of dinner. However, now that she had something to wait for, the afternoon seemed to drag on endlessly. Neither she nor Haiweth were at all attentive during their lessons, and she finally ended them early for lack of progress.

This meant that she had over two hours of free time left before dinner. As Haiweth left the room, prancing in delight, she buried her face in her hands, trying to think of something to do. She had already helped Éomer to sort through the heirlooms of the House of Eorl—some of them she had never seen before, and others she had recognized—and she had also gone to the training grounds.

Sighing a little, she decided to walk down the main street and talk to some of the people. Haiweth, at least, was probably already there, playing with one of her numerous friends. There she would be able to keep an eye on the girl. Hammel she did not know the whereabouts of, but she trusted him to stay out of trouble; or, for Cobryn to ensure that was so. A faint smile crept over her face.

She left her chambers and passed out of the Golden Hall a few moments later. Her brother she had not seen; presumably he was in his room, writing a letter or doing some paperwork in private. _I do not envy him his job,_ she thought wryly, even more grateful she did not have it as the rays of autumn sunshine spilled over her. This was one of the most beautiful seasons, though it also brought about the first chills.

Her cloak she drew tightly around herself as she started walking, looking for Haiweth as she did so. She did not have to search for long: Only a few houses down, a group of small children were playing tag together. Haiweth was one of them; Heahtor was another. Elfhelm and his sister, Brytta—Heahtor's mother and the woman who had cooked at Meduseld when Gúthwyn was a child—were watching the game happily.

"My lady," Elfhelm said as she came closer. Brytta smiled at her.

"Greetings," she spoke to both of them, then grinned as she saw Heahtor chasing Haiweth around in a small circle. "How long have they been playing?"

"Almost an hour," Brytta replied. "Haiweth just joined them."

Gúthwyn nodded. "I brought an early close to our lessons. Neither of us were much interested in them."

Elfhelm could not repress a snort of laughter. She slapped him lightly on the arm. "Thank you, _Marshal_, for being so kind towards your king's sister!"

He grinned, and then his eyes focused on something beyond the younger children.

"What is it?" she asked, squinting.

"The group of boys," Elfhelm answered, pointing. "That is Hammel, is it not?"

Gúthwyn realized that he was right. Worry passed over her: Hammel was sitting on a log, a book in his hand, while three boys were standing in front of him. Their arms were crossed over their chests, and their eyes were narrowed. Scowls were decorating their faces. As she watched, Hammel got to his feet. The four of them looked as if they were exchanging angry words.

"What is going on?" Brytta questioned anxiously. Then her eyes widened, for one of the boys had lunged forward and snatched the book out of Hammel's hands.

"Come with me," Elfhelm muttered to Gúthwyn, who did not need to be told twice. They left the group of children and began striding down the street. The boy was now holding Hammel's book over his head and taunting him, trying to get him to take the bait. Hammel merely stood there, his fists clenched but his arms peacefully hanging by his sides.

"Why are you not trying to save your precious _book_?" the boy sneered, backed by the appreciative snickers of his friends. Gúthwyn recognized him to be the son of Éothain, a Rider of the Mark. "You never seem to want to do anything other than _read_ it. Come on, try and get it!"

Elfhelm and Gúthwyn were still about seven yards away from the boys. None of them had noticed their approach. Hammel remained still; she could see none of the expression on his face.

"Too _afraid_?" Éothain's son asked, dangling the book in front of Hammel's face. "Too cowardly to take it from me?"

"Wulfríd!" Elfhelm roared when he and Gúthwyn were only ten feet from the group.

Éothain's son glanced up. His eyes widened in fear as Elfhelm bore down on him; he tried to step away, but the Marshal was too swift.

"Give Hammel his book. _Now,_" Elfhelm breathed, grabbing Wulfríd's shoulder painfully. "The rest of you, leave now or share in his punishment!"

Without a backward glance, the rest of the boys scattered, leaving only Hammel and Wulfríd. Gúthwyn glanced at the former. His face was devoid of emotion, but his eyes were filled with a burning anger. She put a hand on his shoulder and felt him stiffen.

"Do it," Elfhelm ordered Wulfríd.

The boy glared at Hammel before tossing the book to him. Hammel caught it, staring just as furiously back.

"Now," Elfhelm said to Wulfríd, "I think it is time you and I had a chat with your father. I have not spoken to him in awhile, and you have given me a perfect opportunity."

Wulfríd paled. "We never hurt him!" he protested.

"That does not excuse the fact that you stole something of his," Elfhelm replied shortly. "You will apologize later, when you actually mean it. Come with me."

With that, he marched Wulfríd away. Gúthwyn turned to Hammel. "Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," Hammel answered, looking down at his book and flipping through the pages. None of them had been damaged.

"Has this ever happened before?" Gúthwyn wanted to know, remembering that Cobryn mentioned the other boys teased him occasionally.

"Once or twice," Hammel said off-handedly. When she lifted his chin so that she could look directly into his eyes, she saw no sign of falsehood in their depths.

"Come," she said at length. "Let us go inside. I think you have had enough excitement for one day."

"I am _fine,_" Hammel said irritably, but allowed himself to be lead up the street.

"What about your lessons?" she inquired, keeping her hand on his shoulder. "Have they troubled you then?"

Ever since Cobryn had started teaching some of the boys around Hammel's age how to use a sword, Hammel had attended them diligently. Occasionally Gúthwyn had watched them, though they were in the early morning and as a result she had only done so once or twice. From what she garnered, Hammel was having more difficulty with a sword than with a quill. She had offered to teach him in a private setting, where he would get more instruction, but he was not receptive to the idea.

"No," Hammel said, snorting in a surprising contempt. "They are too busy showing off."

Gúthwyn fell silent at this, wondering if Hammel was jealous of the other boys' prowess. Cobryn had informed her that, while he had potential, he simply had not reached it yet; but though she would never say so, it seemed that Hammel had little chance of success as a warrior. This pained her, as she had often thought of spending fun days practicing with him, though now she would not push him to do something he was not terribly interested in.

Dinner that evening was a long and miserable affair. Gúthwyn was eager for it to be over, as she was impatient to hear what Éomer wished to tell her. Hammel did not speak to anyone, not even to Cobryn, and instead stabbed viciously at his meat with his knife. After nearly ten minutes of this she had ordered him to either eat it or dispose of it. He had chosen the former, albeit grudgingly, and in response to Haiweth's inquiries only glared at her.

Gúthwyn herself did not eat much, and spent most of the rest of dinner coercing Haiweth into eating her vegetables. The girl had quickly discovered the dislike of green food that was inherent in all children, and often shoved them over to the side of her plate in disgust. Today was one of the few days in which she managed to convince her to finish all of them, with the promise of being let out early again in lessons if she did.

At long last, everyone at the table had finished their meal. The servants went around picking up the plates, and Éomer stood. "I shall be retiring for the night," he addressed those near him. Then he turned to Gúthwyn. "Sister, may I speak with you?"

She nodded, and rose to her feet after bidding the children good night. Together the two of them made their way out of the hall and into Éomer's chambers, where he closed the door behind them. "Please, sit," he said, gesturing towards one of the numerous chairs in the room.

Gúthwyn did so, selecting one a little ways away from his desk. He sat down at the table and faced her. "Lord Aragorn," he began, sighing, "will not be staying in Edoras. He wrote to me and said that, unfortunately, there are still several things he has to attend to." Éomer paused for a moment, regarding her. "One of them," he at length said, "is to meet with the slaves of Mordor, as well as the remaining human portion of Sauron's army, and decide their fate."

Her eyes widened. "Is he to punish them?" Though she had not fought against the Free Peoples in any battles, she had been a part of the Dark Lord's forces, and had slain some of Faramir's men in Ithilien. If Aragorn were to pass harsh judgment over those in Mordor, she would have that cloud hanging over her head.

"No," Éomer answered, and she breathed a comforted sigh. "At least, I do not believe so. And…"

For a long time, there was a silence. "Yes?" Gúthwyn at last prompted him.

He exhaled. "Gúthwyn, Aragorn mentioned in his letter to me that he wanted me to ask you if you wished to go with him."

She froze, and felt some of the color draining out of her face. _Go back to Mordor?_ she thought, trying to keep her hands from trembling. _Go back and see the Black Gates, the training grounds, and Haldor's tent?_

"Gúthwyn!"

The next thing she was aware of was Éomer putting his hands on her shoulders and shaking her. She realized that she had been quivering uncontrollably.

"S-Sorry," she muttered, trying to pull away. Éomer released her, sensing her anxiety.

"Sister, I strongly urge you not to go with him," he said worriedly. "I know he thought you might want to be present at the discussions, but look what the mere mention of returning to that place has done to you."

She knew he was right; she knew, also, that if she were to enter the Black Land once more, it would swallow her in all of its terror. She would never be able to rid herself of it.

"I-I will not go," she whispered, swallowing hard.

A look of intense relief swept over Éomer's face. "Thank you," he said, sitting back down. "I was praying you would say that. Aragorn knew that I would have kept this from you, and he insisted that I extend the offer. I could not refuse him."

Gúthwyn nodded, struggling to rid herself of the shrouds in her mind. "What was the other thing you wanted to talk to me about?" she asked, hoping to take her thoughts off of Mordor.

Éomer sat up straighter. "The negotiations with Prince Imrahil have finished," he said.

She felt her mouth open in surprise and anticipation. Both her brother and Cobryn had hinted that it was likely Lothíriel would be the queen of Rohan; was it so now? "And what have you decided?" she asked breathlessly.

A broad smile spread across Éomer's face. "She will be arriving with the start of the new year, and our wedding will be in early January."

"Congratulations!" Gúthwyn cried, and leapt out of her seat to embrace him. Laughter escaped him, joyous and full of hope for the future. It gave her great pleasure to see her brother so happy—he deserved every bit of bliss that came his way. "Oh, this is wonderful!" she murmured as she sat down again. All the clouds of Mordor had vanished. "Will the court of Dol Amroth be coming with her? When are the preparations to begin, and what can I do to help? When will she be crowned?"

"Peace, peace," Éomer chuckled, raising his hands. She was quelled, but could not stop grinning. "Yes, her family at the least will attend the wedding. In October, I will announce the news to the people at the harvest feast. After that, the preparations shall start. You do not have to remain idle if you do not wish. Lothíriel will be crowned when we are married."

Already she was impatient. "How can you stand the waiting?" she asked, sighing.

"It has been over two years," Éomer replied. "I am hoping I can manage a few more months."

Yet he was beaming like a fool, as well.

"When will Éowyn come?" Gúthwyn demanded suddenly, eagerness flooding her at the thought of seeing her sister. They had not spoken to each other since her departure from Rohan after her wedding—letters did not nearly suffice. "Before or after Lothíriel?"

"I just sent a letter to her and Faramir this afternoon," Éomer answered. "When they respond, we shall know."

"Two siblings married…" Gúthwyn muttered, thinking of the happiness Éowyn had experienced that was soon to be her brother's. "I am glad for you both!"

"Now, tell me, sister," Éomer began, with a look in his eyes that suggested the spotlight was thrust on her, "have you given a thought to marriage yet?"

Gúthwyn froze, horror racing through her veins. The image of Borogor's still body lying on the foliage of Ithilien, the memory of how she had whispered his name over and over again with no answer, and the feel of his lifeless lips beneath hers… they raised a loud clamor in her mind, so that she could barely hear the frantic beating of her heart. He was gone…

"Gúthwyn?"

"No!" she choked out, more fiercely than she had intended.

Éomer's eyebrows rose.

"Sorry," Gúthwyn whispered, shaking her head. "No, I have not thought about marriage. I am only twenty-one."

"So is Lothíriel," Éomer pointed out. "In fact, no sooner had the discussions about her finished than Aldor turned to me and said, 'Now, what about the lady Gúthwyn?'"

"What did you say?" Gúthwyn asked, her throat turning dry.

"I told him that I would speak to you, and until then we would not mention the topic again."

She closed her eyes, exhaled, and then opened them again. "Éomer, one wedding at a time." Clasping her hands together, she squeezed them as tightly as she was able, willing herself to remain calm. "I have no interest in finding a husband."

A wry smirk tugged at her brother's lips. "Éowyn used to say that, but I would deem she has adjusted quite well."

"_He was going to marry you, Gúthwyn, marry you!"_

What would Dîrbenn say if she became a wife?

"I am different," she said stiffly.

He regarded her with narrowed eyes, as if he were trying to remember something. "What about the man you mentioned to me, on the road to Isengard long ago?"

She did not want to have to tell him. "Éomer, please, just leave it. I am happy for you and Lothíriel—and I am looking forward to becoming an aunt."

The magic words had been spoken. Her brother forgot about his interrogation and flushed. "Needless to say, my advisors hope that Lothíriel will produce an heir sooner than later. But for now, I am more than content with having her as my wife."

"I daresay," Gúthwyn answered, remembering the princess' beauty and sharp wit. A sigh escaped her: Both Éowyn and Éomer had found someone that they loved, and were able to enjoy the luxury of marrying them. She had found Borogor—and now he was dead. Never would she be able to set her hand in his and wed him under the stars; nor would she be able to press her lips against his in a lovers' kiss; nor would she ever have his children.

The thought startled her, and she glanced up almost guiltily to see Éomer watching her. "Are you all right?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she lied automatically, taking a deep breath. "I am fine."

Gúthwyn did not sleep at all that night.


	24. Letters

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twenty-Four:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Just under three weeks after Éomer told her that he and Lothíriel were to be wedded, Gúthwyn received a letter from Elphir. Out of all the princes of Dol Amroth, it was he whom she had gotten along with the best, and she was delighted when she recognized his seal.

_My lady Gúthwyn,_

_By now, you will be aware that our siblings are marrying each other. It is with great joy that I can now call Éomer a brother, and I pray that you will accept Lothíriel as readily. She has expressed disappointment that you did not get to see each other more often, especially now that you will be at the same court._

Here Gúthwyn paused, wondering if that was indeed to be the case. Would Éomer still want her at Meduseld, if he was hoping to start a family? She would not want to impose on his life with Lothíriel; after all, she had been living here on his goodwill long enough. It would cost her much to leave the place where she had been raised, but if Éomer had a wife and child—or children—to attend to…

Sighing, she made a note to speak with her brother later, and continued reading the letter.

_I am writing to you because, if I may be so bold as to say it, you have been on my mind as of late. Though you may have thought otherwise, I recall that our meetings together—all too brief, unfortunately—were immensely enjoyable. I look back on them with fondness, and I hope you do as well. However, we never got a chance to speak much more beyond casual conversation, and it is my wish to amend that, if you so desire._

_Furthermore, I am bringing my son Alphros with me, and I would love for you to meet him. He is now four, and old enough to accompany his father on long trips. Your brother met him, once; Alphros took a great liking to him, and I imagine he will do the same for you. From what Éomer has told me, I understand that you are wonderful with children. From looking at Hammel and Haiweth, I can see why._

_In addition, I do believe that there is a discrepancy and a grievance we have yet to resolve. The discrepancy being Haiweth's age, and the grievance being the fact that I have not toured around your city._

Gúthwyn giggled at this, remembering those conversations.

_I am greatly looking forward to traveling to your land and seeing you again. With a bit of luck, perhaps, you will think so as well. I hope I have not made a fool of myself by writing to you so brazenly, for I would not like to lose the honor of your acquaintance and—if I may dare to call it so—friendship._

_I pray that you are well, along with the children. Please send them my regards, if they remember me._

_Sincerely, Elphir_

A wide grin came over Gúthwyn's face as she read this in the privacy of her room. Prince Elphir was a wonderful man, that was for sure—who else would have written the sister of their sibling's husband, a person they had only met briefly and spoken with for a short period of time? Immediately, she sat down to write back to him.

_My lord Elphir,_

_I was both surprised and overjoyed to be receiving a letter from you. It was certainly not expected, and it lifted my spirits immeasurably. I, too, look back on our meetings happily; it pleases me to know that you feel the same way. Thank you very kindly for your well wishes. I will certainly pass them on to Hammel and Haiweth. Fortunately, the three of us lack for nothing._

_Regarding the discrepancy and grievance, it is in my power to rid us of the latter. If you are interested, I will show you—and your brothers, if they would like to come along as well—around the city. I would invite Lothíriel, and she is certainly welcome to join us, but I am sure Éomer would rather have the honor._

_I am eagerly waiting your arrival, and it is with great excitement that I anticipate seeing your son. From what you have told me of him, he seems like a wonderful boy. I know a few children his age in the village who would be more than happy for a new playmate, if you are seeking entertainment for him. One boy in particular, by the name of Heahtor (the nephew of Elfhelm, the Marshal of the East-mark), is very adorable and always looking for companions._

_Please send Lothíriel my congratulations, and assure her that I am delighted to welcome her as my brother's wife. I do not doubt that she will make a wonderful queen. Also, to your father—he treated me kindly, though most of the Gondorian nobility looked down on me in the White City, and I thank him for that._

_Finally, I trust that both you and your son are doing well. Again, thank you for taking the time to write to me. It is most appreciated._

_Sincerely, Gúthwyn_

It was nearly an hour later that she completed this letter, as she was forced to start over numerous times. She had not realized how flustering it was to be addressed so by someone. Responding in kind was difficult—what if she unintentionally said something to embarrass herself? It had been difficult to even get past the greeting: Was it "your highness," "my lord," or "prince"?

Even now, with the completed version in her hands, Gúthwyn was only somewhat sure that the endeavor was a success. She read it over once more, checking to make sure that she had spelled everything correctly. As she did so, there was a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" she asked, setting the letter and her quill down.

"Éomer," a voice called, and then the door opened. Her brother, also, held a letter in his hands.

"Is that from Éowyn?" she questioned interestedly, recalling that he had written to her and Faramir with news of his upcoming marriage.

Éomer nodded. "She and Faramir will be arriving in the first week of January. They also inquired as to whether they might stay for a week or so after the wedding, as Éowyn has not seen her home in over two years. I am writing back to assure her that she may remain here as long as she likes."

"Excellent," Gúthwyn beamed happily. Though seeing Éowyn now meant seeing Faramir, she missed her sister too much to care greatly about the matter.

Smiling, Éomer was about to reply when he noticed the letters on her desk. "Who are you in correspondence with, sister?" he questioned. "I saw the herald had a message for you, though I did not think it was from Ithilien."

"It was from the prince Elphir," Gúthwyn answered, handing him the letter. He took it, his eyes widening slightly, and started reading. "I was surprised to hear from him, but I am glad that it was so. He was an excellent companion."

Éomer glanced up from the letter. "This is interesting," he said, watching her carefully.

Gúthwyn took the paper back, scanning over it to see what had captured her brother's attention. She could find nothing. "What is interesting?"

"You have been on his mind as of late?" Éomer quipped, arching his eyebrows. "You never got a chance to speak much more beyond casual conversation, and he wishes to amend that?"

A flush came to her face as she realized, out of context, what that sounded like.

"It seems as if you have caught the eye of the heir of Dol Amroth," Éomer said, sitting down in a chair and smirking at her.

Trying to keep the blush from spreading over her cheeks at her brother's assumption, though—as any woman would be—secretly pleased at the idea that such a charming man would think of her in that way, Gúthwyn asked, "Should I tell him to beware of your sword, then?"

Éomer only laughed. Ever since he and Lothíriel had become betrothed, he was in a far better mood, and dramatically less suspicious of whatever man Gúthwyn happened to be speaking with. "He is lucky that we are close friends—otherwise, he might find himself in danger of losing his head."

Gúthwyn rolled her eyes, somewhat irritated that he had wrongly accused Tun of the same thing, yet would not condemn Elphir for it. But she did not want to get into an argument with her brother, and so mentioned nothing of the matter.

"I think you are merely assuming things, Éomer," she spoke instead. "Elphir and I have not spent much time with each other, and our acquaintance is that of friendship. It is doubtful that he has feelings towards me."

_And I have none for him,_ she thought. If she had not been so in love with Borogor, she might have regretted it—he was, after all, a prince; he had good looks, clever wit, and excellent manners; nor was he unattainable, as she was the sister of a king.

"Besides," she added, "he already has loved another, and has a son from that marriage."

"Nevertheless, I shall observe him carefully when he visits," Éomer replied.

"If you remember what his name is after seeing Lothíriel," Gúthwyn retorted, and now it was his turn to look embarrassed. Whenever she had seen her brother and the princess together, Éomer had barely been able to keep his eyes off of Lothíriel. It was rather amusing; she could not help but tease him frequently for it, as he made it all too easy.

"Someday," Éomer threatened her, "when you are in love with someone, I will think back on those words."

The grin slid off of Gúthwyn's face, and the happy moment was lost.

"What is it?" her brother asked curiously, frowning. "Have I said something to offend you?"

"No," Gúthwyn said with a sigh, picking up her quill and fiddling with it.

"You are obviously troubled, sister," Éomer spoke softly. She did not say anything, but then his eyes widened. "Is it the one you spoke to me of? You have not yet given me his name. Does he not return your feelings?"

"Éomer," she whispered, knowing that if she did not put an end to his questioning now she would never have peace from it, "he died three years ago."

Her brother stared at her in shock as she clamped a hand over her mouth, willing herself not to cry. _Borogor,_ she thought miserably, _I miss you so much. Are you watching over me? Can I look up at the stars and see you and Beregil?_

"Gúthwyn," Éomer began with difficulty, "I had no idea… I did not…"

She lowered her hand. "Please, Éomer," she said, banishing all the trembles from her voice. "Forget that he ever existed. I do not wish to speak of him. He is long gone. Please, do not mention him again."

"I-I…"

Standing up, Gúthwyn went over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Éomer, forget it," she said firmly, looking directly into his horror-filled eyes. "This is _your_ time. You have worried enough about me."

Not trusting herself to retain control of her voice for any longer, Gúthwyn let go of him and walked out of the room. Éomer stared after her, wondering what had happened to the carefree, innocent sister he had once known.

* * *

As the time drew closer to the arrival of Princess Lothíriel, the Golden Hall was kept busy in a state of fervent preparation. Orders for wine, ale, and the best food in Rohan and Gondor were sent out, as well as the notice that King Éomer was looking for minstrels, musicians, and storytellers for the week of the wedding. People began pouring into Edoras from all over, eager to see their new queen. Meduseld was filled to bursting with guests, yet there still needed to be more room for those of Dol Amroth. 

Amidst all this Gúthwyn bustled to and fro, helping the maids serve the entertainers and making sure that their instruments were well kept. In addition, she threw herself into helping her brother prepare his wedding, as he often relied on her for advice about things such as flowers and table arrangements.

The latter were arduous, and caused them much pain: In addition to the courts of Rohan and Dol Amroth, King Elessar and Queen Arwen were arriving with a large entourage to see the union of their two greatest allies. Gúthwyn, Éomer, and Cobryn worked together in ensuring that no one who hated each other would be sitting side-by-side, and that everyone would be able to converse easily with their neighbor. She had never realized how many feuds there were—even if half-healed—until they set to this task.

By the time December was drawing to a close, she was ready to collapse in exhaustion, but she was happier than she had been in a long time. For one thing, spending hours holed up with her brother and discussing the wedding plans made her so tired and hungry that she was actually sleeping and eating somewhat normally. It had been over a month since she had had a nightmare, and the last time she had thrown up a meal had been in October. And since that had been because of a fever, it really did not count.

In addition, she was so keyed up about seeing Éowyn that the mere thought of seeing her put a broad grin on her face. It had been far, far too long since she had spoken with her sister. She had almost entirely overlooked the fact that Faramir would be there as well; after all, surely she would simply be able to ignore him. And if she could not… hopefully he would not strike up a conversation with her.

A few days before the new year, however, Gúthwyn's mood was offset by something. She was sitting inside the throne room, eating lunch, when a messenger came into the hall.

"My lord Éomer," he said, stopping before the throne and bowing. Gúthwyn could hear him perfectly from where she sat. "Erkenbrand and his men have arrived."

Her eyes widened, and she had time to exchange a brief glance with Éomer before she had flung herself out of her seat. Her brother fell in step her as she strode out of Meduseld, and then jogged to keep up with her as she ran down the stairs. Already she could see a group of horsed Riders making their way towards the Golden Hall. Her eyes scanned them eagerly for Tun, but she could not espy him in the company.

"Do you see him?" she asked Éomer, standing on her tiptoes for a better look.

"Your champion?" Éomer questioned, his eyes narrowed. She nodded. "No. He might be in the back."

When Erkenbrand dismounted, Gúthwyn could scarcely contain her impatience as he spoke briefly with Éomer. "Congratulations, my lord," he said warmly, shaking her brother's hand. "I was most pleased to hear the news."

"So was I," Éomer admitted, and they both laughed.

"Lord Erkenbrand, welcome," Gúthwyn said once they had finished.

"Thank you, my lady," he said with a bow.

"Where is Tun?" she asked, without further conversation. "I cannot see him—was he riding at the rear?"

Erkenbrand hesitated, looking down at her and sighing. "He did not come," the Marshal said at last.

Gúthwyn felt her mouth drop open. "He did not come?" she repeated in confusion and disappointment. "Why not?"

Appearing uncomfortable, Erkenbrand replied, "I needed someone to stay behind and take over the management while I was away. He volunteered for the job."

Her shoulders slumped. "Did he send any word, then?" she wanted to know, desperate for some news of him.

Erkenbrand shook his head, glancing at Éomer. "I am sorry, Gúthwyn," he answered. "I asked him, but he thought it would be better if he said nothing."

A lump formed in her throat. "How is he?" she asked quietly, struggling to keep the tears from her eyes. To have him ignore her like that…

"Gúthwyn," Éomer muttered, putting a hand on her shoulder. Angrily, she brushed it away.

"Well enough," Erkenbrand said heavily. "He keeps his head down and does his work. That is all that can be asked of him."

Gúthwyn frowned: His words were not nearly as comforting as she would have liked. She was opening her mouth to probe him further when Éomer cut her off. "Sister, please," he said. "Let Lord Erkenbrand and his men rest. They have traveled a long distance and are weary."

"As you wish," she muttered dully, and turned back to Erkenbrand. "My apologies."

"It is not necessary, my lady," Erkenbrand replied. "I am sorry I could not be of more help to you."

She could only sigh. "If you will excuse me, my lord, I shall go and make sure that some food is prepared for you."

With that she turned away, and before she had the chance to stop it a tear spilled down her cheek. Hastily she removed all evidence of it, but another replaced it, and then another. Ducking her head so that no one could see her shame, she walked hurriedly towards the Golden Hall, her arms wrapped protectively around herself. Quickly she ascended the stairs, nodding briefly to the guards before going inside.

Once in the safety of the dim throne room, she hid behind a pillar out of sight of the servants. It was surprising how much it hurt to not have any word of Tun, and not even be able to see him after over eight months. _Why is he still avoiding me?_ she thought, wiping at her eyes and trying to stop the tears. _Surely Éomer no longer suspects him of anything—why will he not relent?_

"Gúthwyn?"

Startled, she simultaneously whirled around and backed away. Before she realized it was Cobryn, she had knocked over some of the spears that had been leaning against the wall. As they clattered to the ground with a ringing noise that made her wince, she stumbled, and would have fallen had her friend not reached out and steadied her.

"Goodness, is everything all—"

She and Cobryn turned to see Elflede standing awkwardly in front of them, a bright red color spreading across her cheeks. "Forgive me, my lady," she muttered, averting her eyes from the two of them. "I did not know… I did not mean to intrude…"

Then she all but ran away, lifting her skirts so that she could walk faster.

"I am afraid that will be all over Edoras tomorrow," Cobryn said, letting go of her. Gúthwyn blushed, aware of what it was that Elflede had assumed her to be doing. A curse passed through her mind as she imagined what Éomer would say if he heard about it. _He would probably kill Cobryn._

"Sorry," she replied, wiping some dust off of her dress.

"What were you doing behind there?" Cobryn asked as they moved out into the hall. Lowering his voice, he added, "Your eyes are red."

"I was thinking about Tun," Gúthwyn responded, knowing that she could tell him the truth. As long as what she told him did not endanger her health, she knew that he would not let a word of it pass from his lips again.

"He was not with Erkenbrand?" Cobryn inquired, seeming surprised.

Gúthwyn shook her head. "And he did not send any word to me. Nor did Erkenbrand say how he was doing!"

"I would wager that he is miserable," Cobryn answered swiftly.

She could not help but smile. "Thanks," she replied, rubbing at her eyes. "But I think you have described me more aptly. I miss him."

Cobryn looked at her keenly. "You care for him, do you not?"

"Of course I do," Gúthwyn responded, sighing. "He was my best friend for so long, and then he became my champion. Yet now, he will not even speak to me!"

"I do not believe that is because he dislikes you," Cobryn said quietly. "Rather, it seems to me that he does not wish to regain Éomer's suspicion by being around you."

"Why does Éomer think him untrustworthy with me?" Gúthwyn cried, causing some of the servants nearby to glance over.

For a moment, Cobryn looked as if he were about to say something. Then, he spoke abruptly, "He is merely trying to protect you. I know occasionally his worries are unnecessary, but he is doing it because he loves you."

Gúthwyn frowned. "Occasionally unnecessary?" she muttered, and he smirked.

* * *

It was the first day of the new year. Gúthwyn had been roused far earlier in the morning than she would have liked by Éomer, who wanted her to be dressed well in advance in case the court of Dol Amroth came before they were expected. She did not grumble, however, for she did not wish to do anything to dampen his mood. He was in better spirits than she had ever seen, swifter to move to laughter than her memory could recall. 

She had even allowed him to extract the promise that she would wear her white gown to the wedding ceremony. Today, however, she had donned the simple green dress that she had secretly been the most pleased with. Her hair had been brushed until her scalp was pink—had she known Cwene was that deadly with the instrument, she would have never allowed the maid near her with it—and the locks were positively shining.

"You look wonderful, sister," Éomer complimented her as she entered his chambers.

"I have always been the prettier one out of the two of us," she teased, coming to stand beside him. He was in front of the mirror, his face slightly taut with anxiety.

Yet he still managed to lightly hit her in the arm. "Thank you, sister," he muttered. "I knew I could count on you for confidence."

"Éomer, Lothíriel will scarcely be able to believe how lucky she is," Gúthwyn said reassuringly, reaching for a nearby brush. "Hold still."

Standing on her tiptoes, she ran the comb through Éomer's hair, though not as viciously as Cwene had done. "Stop tugging at your sleeves!" she exclaimed. He had been fiddling with them on and off. "They look fine!"

"I do not want her to think I cannot dress properly!" Éomer retorted, and then winced as she gave a particularly sharp tug.

"She has already agreed to marry you, has she not?" Gúthwyn asked. "I highly doubt she will cancel the wedding because your sleeves are not to her liking."

Éomer fell silent, though he fidgeted often. At last, she pronounced his hair satisfactory, and lowered the brush. "Now," she began, "you should—"

It was then that the faint calling of a horn, meeting their ears from a great distance, filtered into the room. Almost immediately, several pairs of feet scurried down the hallway. The door into Éomer's room was thrown open, and Cwene stuck her head in. "They are here!" she cried.

Quickly, Gúthwyn embraced her brother. "Good luck," she whispered.

His face was paler than usual, but when he walked towards the door there was no faltering in his steps. Together they passed through his chambers, ready to meet the delegation of Dol Amroth and the new future of Rohan.


	25. Luncheon

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twenty-Five:  
**Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

When Gúthwyn stepped outside of the Golden Hall, holding Haiweth in one hand and keeping the other on Hammel's shoulder, the first thing she saw was a sea of white and blue. Blinking, she realized that almost all of the Dol Amroth steeds were white, and their owners garbed in the color of the ocean from whence they came. Prince Imrahil in all his finery was at their head, and Lothíriel waited beside him.

Studying the princess, noting that she was just as beautiful as ever in an ornate white gown, Gúthwyn thought she detected a different air about her. The haughtiness was still there, evident in her posture and the way her face was slightly tilted up, but for a moment Gúthwyn could not place the emotion that was causing her eyes to dart around the crowd. Then she realized that it was nervousness.

For a great crowd had gathered around the delegation, all chattering in Rohirric. It was improbable that Lothíriel understood any of it; she would have to learn the language of her new people. Nor was she likely to recognize any of the faces that were now calling to her, praising her beauty and shouting, "All hail the new queen!"

_If I did not know what they were saying,_ she thought, _I would be a little anxious as well._

Her eyes flicked past Lothíriel to the princes. Amrothos, the youngest; Erchirion, whom she had barely spoken to… and there was Elphir. He, too, had been surveying the crowd. When his gaze fell on her, he smiled and gave a small wave. Gúthwyn returned the gesture happily, causing Hammel to stand on his tiptoes and see whom it was she was looking at.

"It is the prince Elphir," she informed him, noticing that Imrahil's son was drawing a great amount of attention from the women. Then again, all of the princes were—they were certainly what one would call "dashing," with the added bonus of being royalty.

Éomer motioned to her then. "Keep together," she told Hammel and Haiweth, knowing that if they were not careful they could get jostled by the mass of servants and royal guards on the stairs. Once they had nodded, she let go, and joined her brother as he walked down the steps. She was careful to keep a foot behind him at all times, since in the eyes of the court she was not his equal.

As Éomer drew near, Imrahil glanced at Lothíriel and nodded. He dismounted, patting his horse on the neck before approaching Éomer. "My friend," he said, a broad grin on his face.

The two of them embraced briefly, and then Imrahil turned to Gúthwyn. "My lady," he said with a bow.

"My lord," Gúthwyn murmured, curtsying.

"Your beauty has grown great since last I saw you," Imrahil complimented her, and she flushed.

"Not as great as Lothíriel's, I fear," she answered, and received a laugh in response.

"Your modesty, as well."

"Sister, your face is nearly as red as my armor," Éomer said, and looked at Imrahil. "I think it is time to give her some relief. Shall we go inside? A feast has been prepared."

"Aye, that sounds excellent," Imrahil agreed.

Gúthwyn then watched as Éomer made his way over to Lothíriel, who had remained in the saddle. The princess' face softened when she saw him, and a tentative smile crossed her face as he held out his hand to help her down. She accepted, leaning in to whisper something in his ear after her slipper-clad feet had touched the ground. Éomer responded just as quietly, and the two of them shared a grin. He placed a gentle kiss on her cheek, causing her to turn faintly pink.

The princes dismounted then, and Éomer and Lothíriel drew apart. "Now, Éomer, she is not yet yours," Elphir said, coming towards the king with a smirk on his face.

"Yes, keep your hands off our sister, you animal," Amrothos added, and then clapped his hand on Éomer's shoulder in a friendly greeting.

"Amrothos!" Lothíriel hissed in embarrassment.

Gúthwyn smiled, turning towards Prince Imrahil. "You are lucky to have such sons," she said, "along with a daughter no less wonderful."

"The Valar have been good to me," Imrahil allowed, nodding. "Yet no less so to you. Where are Hammel and Haiweth?"

"Just a moment," Gúthwyn said. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she called out for them. A few seconds later, Hammel emerged from the crowd, his sister in tow behind him.

"Your highness," the boy said, bowing to Imrahil. Haiweth tried to curtsy, though she tripped on the hem of her dress and had to be steadied by her brother.

Imrahil laughed, though not unkindly. "You have both grown," he commented. "Hammel, how old are you?"

"Eleven," he promptly replied.

"Soon to be a man," Imrahil responded. "I trust you have been keeping up with your lessons?"

"I have," Hammel said, trying and failing to conceal his delight.

"Indeed, he is excelling at them," Gúthwyn said, ruffling the hair on his head. Soon, she would have to reach up to do that.

"And how about you, Haiweth?" Imrahil inquired, looking at the girl with twinkling eyes. "You have seen ten summers now, have you not?"

"Eight," Haiweth corrected him smugly.

He feigned surprise. "I confess I had thought you older. My, my, you certainly do not appear so young."

Haiweth glowed with satisfaction and pride. Hammel appeared as if he were on the verge of rolling his eyes.

"She is drawing quite well," Gúthwyn informed Imrahil happily. "Her mind is not turned to the written word, yet she is no less capable with a quill."

Imrahil opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment they were joined by his sons, Éomer, and Lothíriel. Gúthwyn smiled at the princess, but only received a thin one in response. Again, she wondered at Lothíriel's manner towards her. Half of the time she seemed perfectly friendly, while the other half she kept herself aloof and rarely deigned to speak to her. She could not decide whether it was merely because they had not gotten the chance to know each other yet, or if there was some other reason.

Yet all those musings and doubts soon left her mind, for they had begun to move up the steps into Meduseld, and she had to keep all her attention on Hammel and Haiweth for fear of losing them in the crowd. Occasionally she glanced at Elphir, noting that he had a small child with him. It was Alphros, staring in wonder at all that he saw and keeping up a constant flow of chatter. _He and Haiweth will get along well,_ she thought in amusement.

Once they had passed into the warmer interior of the Golden Hall, the servants spread out and began lifting the covers off of various platters. All of the tables had been pushed together—with the exception of one, for the children—to create an enormous one that could hold all of the guests, royal guards, and advisors.

Her attention was then diverted by Elphir approaching her. "My lady," he said, bowing.

"My lord," she replied, and curtsied. Hammel, Haiweth, and Alphros were watching each other doubtfully.

Elphir saw this, and smiled. "This is my son, Alphros," he said, nudging him forward. For an instant, the boy looked nervous at being placed under such attention. Then he grinned, and held out three fingers.

"I'm four!" he announced proudly.

Gúthwyn's eyes met Elphir's, and the next instant they were both laughing. "Another discrepancy," she said gravely. Then she knelt down so that she was level with Alphros. "My name is Gúthwyn," she told him, holding out her hand. After a second's hesitation, he shook it. "You have a strong grip," she commented, and he grinned.

"Someday I'll be stronger than Papa!" he declared, his dark eyes dancing with delight.

"If you work hard," Gúthwyn said with a smile, "I do not see that as impossible. In the meantime, however, would you like to make some new friends?"

He nodded eagerly.

"Then I would like you to meet Hammel and Haiweth," she said, standing up and turning to the children.

"I am eight," Haiweth spoke quickly.

Alphros' eyes widened in awe, and Elphir chuckled to see him so amazed. "Eight!" the boy exclaimed. A frown came over his face, and he held out his hand as if trying to count on his fingers. "That's… that's…"

"Four," Elphir contributed.

"Four years older than me!" Alphros finished.

"I think we should be sitting down," Hammel interjected quietly.

Gúthwyn and Elphir glanced up, and saw that nearly everyone had been seated. Some of the people were watching them; the number was growing.

"Alphros," Elphir said, "would you like to sit with Hammel and Haiweth for lunch?"

Both Alphros and Haiweth nodded. "Then it is settled," Haiweth declared, and beckoned imperiously to Alphros. "I will introduce you to everyone."

Gúthwyn smiled as Alphros bounced happily after Haiweth, followed by Hammel's silent figure. "I suppose we should follow suit," she said.

"Aye, let us go," he replied. Together they crossed the hall, and were the last ones to sit down at the great table that had been set for the king and his guests. Several of the guards waved to her as she passed by, and she returned the greetings happily.

"What kept you, sister?" Éomer asked as she sat down beside him. Lothíriel was on his other side, with Imrahil on her right. Elphir had settled to the left of Gúthwyn, joining his brothers. A brief glance down the table showed her that the rest of the Dol Amroth court had been interspersed amongst the royal guards. A slight pang entered her chest as she thought that Tun should have been among them.

"Alphros was meeting Hammel and Haiweth," she explained, under the gaze of Lothíriel as well as her brother.

"How are the children?" Lothíriel then inquired, leaning forward. Her dark hair had been pulled back, making her features look sharper than usual. "Well, I hope."

"They are, thank you," Gúthwyn answered. "Hammel's lessons are going far better than expected, and Haiweth is proving to be quite the artist."

"I am glad to hear it," Lothíriel said, then looked at Éomer. "My lord, I have discovered something of a most alarming nature."

"And what might that be?" Éomer inquired, raising his eyebrows. Gúthwyn noticed that his hand was holding Lothíriel's under the table.

"I am afraid you shall have to teach me how to speak your language," Lothíriel replied, and then with a small grin whispered something in Éomer's ear.

His eyes widened, and a chuckle escaped him. "I think that can be arranged," he murmured.

As the servants were bringing around pitchers of mead, Elphir turned to Gúthwyn. "You look beautiful, my lady," he said.

She flushed a deep crimson. "Thank you," she replied, not quite sure of what to say. "I wish I could return such a sentiment, though I am afraid that if I said you were handsome I would merely be repeating the words of a thousand women before me."

"You are too generous," he answered, laughing a little. "Most women pay more attention to Alphros. He is quite the charming boy—he follows in Amrothos' footsteps."

"I do find myself taken with him," Gúthwyn responded. "Is this his first time traveling?"

"No," Elphir said, "although this is the farthest he has been away from his home."

Gúthwyn was about to ask him another question when her brother stood up, causing everyone to fall silent and look up at him expectantly.

"Honored guests," he said, gazing out at them with a smile on his face, "I bid you welcome to my home. Let all here feast and be glad!"

Gúthwyn grinned as Éomer sat back down. He liked to keep his speeches before meals short, saying that it was nothing short of torture to place food in front of a hungry man and not allow him to eat it.

Above the noise of clanking plates and goblets that ensued, Elphir said, "I received your letter a few weeks before we left. I was glad you responded, though I did not think that I could reply and have it reach you in time."

Slightly surprised that he had intended on carrying out their correspondence, she replied, "That was kind of you to write me. I was not expecting it."

"I remembered your company," Elphir answered, "and I also wished to know whether you were still willing to give me a tour of your city."

"Of course I am!" Gúthwyn assured him, thinking that it would be far less awkward with him than Legolas. "We shall do it whenever you wish."

"I am looking forward to it," he said, helping himself to some soup.

Gúthwyn glanced down at her own plate. It was empty. Her eyes flicked around the table, searching for the bread. To her relief, it was in reach. She took a slice, and on a whim decided to try some of the stew. Once it was near her, she used the ladle to put some next to her bread. Surreptitiously, she used her fork to take out the meat. She did not think she would ever again have the strength to eat that which she had survived on for three years; to be honest, she did not particularly care.

When she looked up, it was to see Lothíriel watching her. Caught off-guard, Gúthwyn quickly cast around for something to say. "I hope your journey was safe?" she at last asked.

Lothíriel raised an eyebrow. "The roads have long been clear of danger, in no small part due to your brother."

Leaning over to join the conversation, Elphir mock-whispered to Gúthwyn, "That did not stop her from anxiously looking around every few minutes to make sure there were no Orcs!"

Gúthwyn could not help but giggle.

"Perhaps if you had not spent so much time when I was younger telling me horror stories about unsuspecting travelers…" Lothíriel muttered, her eyes narrowed.

"Those were in the days when you still believed some of what I told you," Elphir teased her. Looking at Gúthwyn, he said, "My sister is uncannily clever. It is a most annoying trait when you are attempting to lie to her."

"I shall keep that in mind," Gúthwyn replied, and Lothíriel smiled with the air of someone merely tolerating affection.

"Dear Elphir, you exaggerate," she said. "I simply happen to be observant. Do you not agree, Éomer?"

Éomer started, obviously too entranced by Lothíriel to pay attention to what she was saying. Gúthwyn laughed at this. "That is good, for Rohan will need a set of eyes that are not so easily distracted!"

"Thank you, sister," Éomer growled, heartily embarrassed.

Her grin only widened. "You are most welcome, brother."

The feast continued with more casual banter, much of which was aimed at Éomer and Lothíriel. Both Gúthwyn and Elphir, joined shortly afterwards by Amrothos and Imrahil, hurled relentless barbs at them. Lothíriel soon established herself as a worthy duelist with words; she was far wittier than her brother had described. Gúthwyn sensed that she would be a formidable opponent on the political spectrum.

She herself was not nearly so cunning, and wound up listening and laughing more than speaking. And so the lunch passed, a mere blur of taunts and jests. When all was done, they rose to retire for the afternoon. Éomer was to hold a private audience in his chambers with Prince Imrahil; the two of them departed shortly after they had pushed away their plates. However, the former did not leave until he had given his future wife a tender kiss on the brow.

Glad that her brother was so happy, Gúthwyn was in a very good mood as she descended the stairs out of the Golden Hall. The only thing that she could complain about was the weather: She had drawn Borogor's and Chalibeth's cloaks around her, in addition to the fact that her dress was made of wool. Yet still her teeth chattered as she made her way towards where Haiweth was playing with a group of children—one of whom was Alphros—and her hands were almost numb from the cold.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

Gúthwyn glanced over to see Elphir coming up beside her, a faint smile on his face as he watched Alphros gleefully chasing Heahtor.

"Not at all," she replied. "Alphros is an adorable child."

"I am lucky to have him," Elphir answered. Gúthwyn fell silent, remembering that his wife had died giving birth—she did not want to bring up unpleasant memories, knowing all too well their effect. From the looks of it, so did Elphir.

At length, she said, "I am eager for the wedding."

He seized upon this topic, and for several minutes they discussed the ceremony. "My brother has never been so smitten by a woman before," Gúthwyn commented, smiling. "Though I am not sure it is good that Lothíriel has struck him so: He has become a fool!"

"All of us are fools at one point or another," Elphir said, chuckling. "Love, in particular, seems very adept at disarming one of their wits."

"That is often the case," she agreed, struggling not to think of Mordor.

"It was certainly so in my sister," Elphir spoke. "She concealed it well, but I knew her enough to see that it was quite clearly otherwise."

"I am glad that they will be happy with each other," Gúthwyn murmured, drawing her cloaks tightly around her as a gust of wind chilled her bones. "And though she and I have only conversed occasionally, I do not doubt she shall be a wonderful friend."

"Aye," Elphir agreed. "If she holds you in high regard, then she is an excellent companion. Though I doubt you need to worry—as the sister of her husband, you should not."

"That is good to hear."

As they were speaking, they came to the blacksmith's shop and leaned against it, watching the children running around in front of them. Hammel was nowhere in sight—probably reading, she reflected with a sigh, thinking that there was some truth in Wulfrid's scornful words.

"Lady Éowyn is coming soon, is she not?" Elphir asked suddenly, and Gúthwyn glanced over at him.

"Yes, she is," she replied, beaming. "I have not seen her for over two years! It has been far too long. I am most looking forward to it."

Her smile broadened as she saw Haiweth twirling around in her dress, giggling in delight. The next instant she broke out into a run, for Heahtor had sighted her as his next target.

"Regrettably, I did not get the chance to speak with her often in Minas Tirith," Elphir remarked. "Yet I heard of her valor and courage against the Witch-king of Angmar, and could scarcely believe it. I hold her in great esteem, for it is said that no Man could fell the Black Rider."

"She was—and likely still is—immensely gifted with a sword," Gúthwyn said. "But she has renounced the craft, and now trains to heal wounds rather than give them."

"A no less admirable profession," Elphir acknowledged. "What of yourself? Have you turned from the blade as well? I heard rumors of your talent, and it seems not impossible when one looks at your family."

Gúthwyn smiled at the compliment. "I would never dream of setting my sword aside in favor of another pursuit. It is a constant source of annoyance for my brother. He does not like that I practice with the men."

"You do?" Elphir questioned, looking surprised.

"It is not very proper," Gúthwyn allowed, a hint of a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "But I will not be refused."

Elphir chuckled. "I cannot disagree with that," he said.

An idea crossed through her mind, and she turned to him. "What say you, my lord," she began, smirking, "to a friendly duel before you return to your home by the sea?"

Elphir's eyebrows shot upwards. "I would not want to hurt—" he began, but she cut him off.

"Your sister learned to wield a sword, did she not? Surely you sparred with her?"

He paused, and then began again. "That was—"

"Or are you afraid to fight a woman?" she interjected, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

His looked as if he were about to scoff, but before he had a chance to speak Alphros and Haiweth came bounding over to them, evidently done with their game of tag.

"Did you enjoy yourself, son?" Elphir asked, picking the boy up and swinging him around. Alphros laughed gleefully in response.

"What about you, Haiweth?" Gúthwyn inquired, smiling.

"I caught lots of people!" Haiweth declared proudly.

"Excellent!" Gúthwyn praised her. "What do you want to do now?"

The girl answered promptly, "I want to draw."

"Then let us go inside," Gúthwyn suggested, "and I will find you some parchment."

Haiweth agreed to this, and they bid farewell to Elphir and Alphros. Before she left, Gúthwyn leaned close to the prince and muttered, "I have not withdrawn my challenge. I hope to see you on the training grounds soon."

His eyes widened in both surprise and amusement, but he had no time to do anything else. She turned away, smiling to herself, and did not look back. Had she done so, she would have seen his gaze following her all the way into the Golden Hall.


	26. Unpacking

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twenty-Six:  
****Quick note about geography in regards to Legolas' colony in Ithilien:** It was not ever mentioned where specifically it was. Thus, I am putting it in Southern Ithilien, as further north is extremely close to the Mountains of Shadow, and I doubt Legolas would lead his people there. **In addition, about Eldarion—**he will be absent throughout the course of this epilogue, as the Encyclopedia of Arda estimated his birth date at around F.A. 30. This is why there will be no mention of Aragorn and Arwen's children. The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

Less than three days after Lothíriel had passed through the gates of Edoras, a herald entered the Great Hall to announce the imminent arrival of King Elessar, Queen Arwen, Lord Faramir, and Lady Éowyn. Almost instantaneously there was an uproar. Gúthwyn bolted out of her seat—she had been talking to Elphir about how she used to race her siblings on horseback when she was younger—and nearly ran for the doors. Following her at a more dignified, albeit swift, pace was Éomer.

The nobles of Rohan and Dol Amroth filed out on the steps to await the incoming delegation; Gúthwyn knew it would be a great host, as the cooks had been preparing for the feast almost as soon as the new year's one had ended. However, she was not expecting the countless numbers of horses and riders that were now coming up the main street, closely surrounded by a throng of cheering civilians.

There were so many of them that, later, they would have to camp outside of the city in large tents that had been hastily constructed. King Elessar and Queen Arwen were the first to be seen; many of the Rohirrim were struck speechless at the latter's beauty, and immediately sank to their knees in reverence. Yet Gúthwyn's eyes flicked over them only briefly before falling on the person she was most eager to see: Éowyn.

Her sister was waving contentedly at the people, who were gleefully applauding her return and calling out praise for the White Lady. Gúthwyn's heart nearly burst to see that she remained as happy and healthy as ever. At Éowyn's side was Faramir, looking around the city with a smile on his face. As she watched, he leaned over to whisper something to her sister; Éowyn laughed, and guided her horse closer to him so that she could give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

All this Gúthwyn managed to watch without flinching. Indeed, a broad grin was tugging relentlessly at her lips. When the host had stopped, and the royalty dismounted, it was all she could do to keep herself from running at her sister and embracing her. Instead, she waited impatiently as King Elessar and Queen Arwen approached her brother.

For all his status, Aragorn appeared to not have changed in the least. Though his garments were fine, Gúthwyn caught the briefest glimpse of his boots and saw that they were his worn Ranger ones. Arwen, of course, was as beautiful as ever; she felt a resurgence of the old envy within her. The Elf had everything Gúthwyn did not: Namely, the person whom she loved to call her husband.

"My lord, my lady," Éomer said then, acknowledging each of them with a bow. "Welcome to my home."

"Thank you for allowing us to stay," Arwen replied, gracefully curtsying. Gúthwyn knew that even Lothíriel—who was standing only a few yards away with her family—could not have done better. As for herself… well, she was hopelessly outclassed. "I pray that we will not crowd your home overmuch."

"Not at all," Éomer responded swiftly. "The more, the merrier!"

Aragorn chuckled. "Thank you, my friend. And congratulations."

Gúthwyn giggled as Éomer's eyes sparkled, though he tried his best to contain his excitement.

A moment later, she found herself at the center of attention. "I am glad to see that you are once more in good health," Aragorn commented.

"I feel better than ever," she answered happily, and then grinned. "I, in turn, am glad to see that you have not forgotten who you once were." She glanced pointedly down at his feet.

For the first time in her recollection, Aragorn flushed. Arwen looked at him. "I thought we discussed the appropriate times to wear those," she said, though she was clearly amused.

"I hope I have not gotten you into trouble," Gúthwyn teased.

"On a more serious note," Aragorn said, changing the subject quickly, "how are Hammel and Haiweth?"

"Excellent!" Gúthwyn beamed. Instinctively, she turned around and scanned the crowd for them. When she at last found them, and met Hammel's eyes, the boy began leading his sister over.

"Your highness," Hammel said politely, bowing. At a nudge, Haiweth curtsied.

"You have certainly taught them well," Arwen observed, smiling. "They are very courteous."

"Unfortunately, I cannot claim the honor of Hammel's education," Gúthwyn replied, though she was pleased with the compliment. "Cobryn has been teaching him."

"Ah, I remember him," Aragorn said. "How is he?"

"He is one of my brother's advisors," Gúthwyn answered. "I think he enjoys his job too much—he always has politics on the mind."

"There is nothing wrong with that," Aragorn said with a smile. "Éomer is lucky to have him."

They ended their conversation shortly after, for Éowyn and Faramir were now exchanging greetings with Éomer. Gúthwyn restrained herself from rocking back and forth on the balls of her heels in excitement; she was so eager to speak to her sister that she could scarcely contain it. Even the sight of Borogor's killer could not dampen her mood.

After what seemed like years, Éowyn and Faramir turned from her brother, and were soon in front of her. The smile on Éowyn's face was mirrored by Gúthwyn's.

"I missed you so much!" Gúthwyn cried, and flung her arms around her sister. Laughing, Éowyn returned the hug, squeezing her tightly.

"I have missed you as well," she murmured.

When they pulled apart, Éowyn looked her up and down appraisingly. "I can no longer feel all your bones through your dress," she said softly.

Gúthwyn flushed happily. "That is good to hear," she replied.

"And Haiweth, Hammel," Éowyn continued, looking down at the children with a broad smile. "You have both grown so much taller! How old are you?"

"Eight," Haiweth said proudly.

"Eleven."

"Now tell me, Gúthwyn," Éowyn began, smirking a little, "has Haiweth yet learned to wield a sword?"

The two of them chuckled, and Gúthwyn responded, "No; she has little interest. That is not to say I have not offered, however."

"I thought as much," Éowyn agreed. "And what of you, Hammel?"

"Cobryn is instructing me," Hammel said quietly. "Ever since Lord Erkenbrand left to oversee the repair of Helm's Deep, he has been teaching a class."

"That is good," Éowyn said. Gúthwyn smiled at Hammel, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Then she glanced at Faramir. He had been watching their reunion silently; now she turned towards him and gave a small curtsy. "My lord," she said, with only a trace of stiffness in his tone.

For a moment, Faramir did not seem to know how to respond. At length he bowed.  
"It has been too long," he spoke awkwardly.

"Aye," Éowyn agreed, taking her husband's hand. "Éomer cannot often escape his duties, and now that he is getting married such occurrences will be even rarer, but you, sister, at the least should come and visit us. You would love Emyn Arnen. It is a beautiful place."

"I will keep your offer in mind," Gúthwyn said quietly, though she had little intention of visiting Ithilien anytime soon.

A sudden thought came to her. "Do you see Legolas often?"

"His colony is nearby—it is in the forest that borders the hills," Faramir explained. "We have visited him on occasion."

"You have seen his home?" Gúthwyn asked, her eyes widening.

"It is wonderful," Éowyn said. "Many of his people live in the trees, and in times of great joy you can hear them singing while you walk. Everything seems to have been built around the forest, rather than over it. I do not think a single healthy tree was needlessly felled."

"You are probably right," Faramir agreed. "Though I found myself more impressed with their archery range—nowhere in Gondor is there finer."

"I can imagine that," Gúthwyn answered, mulling over the information in her mind. She felt strangely hesitant to listen to it—it was as if she were half afraid of what memories might be conjured up, yet another part of her wanted to hear what her sister was saying.

"Now, Gúthwyn, where is your champion?" Éowyn inquired, raising an eyebrow and glancing at Faramir. Gúthwyn knitted her brow in confusion, not understanding the meaning of her tone.

"It is a long story," she said at length, "and not one I should tell around Éomer."

Indeed, a quick look over her shoulder showed that Éomer and Lothíriel were now drawing nearer to them. "I will help you unpack," she told her sister quickly, "and you shall learn of it then."

Now it was Éowyn's turn to look confused, but before she could say anything Éomer and Lothíriel had joined them.

"What say you all to a meal?" Éomer asked, slipping a gentle arm around Lothíriel's waist. The princess' cheeks turned pink, but she certainly did not cringe from his touch.

"That sounds excellent," Faramir replied, and they all voiced their assent.

* * *

It was not until late in the evening that Gúthwyn and Éowyn found themselves alone. They were in the White Lady's former chambers, unpacking her suitcases and putting the clothes into her dresser. The maids had been dismissed, as Éowyn had been most eager to hear the tale about Tun.

"So," she said the instant after Elflede closed the door behind her, "where has he gone? I did not see him at the feast at all."

Gúthwyn sighed as she folded a white dress. "As you can imagine, Éomer has distrusted him ever since he became my champion."

"I would be shocked if he did not," Éowyn commented, putting some of her undergarments away in their drawers.

Smiling grimly, Gúthwyn replied, "Need I say that Tun has done nothing to deserve this? Out of all the men, he is the one most cautious with me on the training grounds. That was what started it: I ordered him to attack me like an equal. I fought him as well as I was able, and since a crowd had gathered around us he was forced to obey me or lose his dignity."

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. "I am assuming you won?"

Gúthwyn flushed a little. "As I was pushing him back, he tripped on a helmet. I fell down with him, and we rolled over once. I ended up on top, disarmed him, and put my sword at his throat."

Éowyn's piercing gaze fixed on her. "You were on the ground with him?" she asked, her eyes narrowed shrewdly.

"It was an accident!" Gúthwyn protested, though her cheeks were flaming at her sister's scrutiny. "But that was when Éomer came, and he thought"—she paused, and then continued defiantly—"well, he thought the wrong thing, that is what."

"Sister, that does sound like a… compromising position, to say the least," Éowyn commented, her tone hesitantly disapproving. "You are far from the days of wrestling with him."

Gúthwyn sighed. "That is what Éomer told me," she replied ruefully. "Only a lot louder."

"You got into an argument?" Éowyn asked.

"Several," Gúthwyn admitted, and frowned. "Our dear brother ordered Gamling to keep poor Tun from coming to the feast that was being held in honor of Legolas' visit. I found out about it and confronted him—he accused Tun of seizing 'any reason' to touch me, and all sorts of horrible things."

"You are aware of why Éomer feels the need to watch him, correct?" Éowyn inquired.

Gúthwyn knitted her brow at the way the question had been worded, but nevertheless said, "Because he distrusts any male companion of mine; Tun even more so, since he is my champion. It is rather irksome."

"That was not what I was talking about," Éowyn said, turning away from Gúthwyn as she spoke to put away one of her dresses.

"What are you talking about?" Gúthwyn asked in confusion.

Éowyn's head swiveled around to stare at her. For a long time, their gazes held each other's, Gúthwyn's utterly puzzled. At last, Éowyn sighed in seeming exasperation. "Never mind, sister," she muttered.

"Did I say something to offend you?" Gúthwyn wanted to know, her voice quiet.

Éowyn looked surprised. "No, not at all."

Still at a loss for what was going through her sister's mind, Gúthwyn stood idle a few more seconds before returning to the task at hand. "Then, the next morning," she continued as she worked, "the two of us had another argument in front of Erkenbrand. Tun heard of it, and he came to me while I was in the stables."

She thrust Éowyn's shift into the bureau more vehemently than was required. Its owner raised an eyebrow. "Sorry," she said sheepishly. "He told me that he was leaving with his uncle to work on the repairs for Helm's Deep, and would not come back for another year."

"Why?" Éowyn questioned, letting the dress fall out of her hands and land unnoticed on the bed.

"He said he did not want Éomer and I to be arguing," Gúthwyn replied heavily, her heart twisting for her poor champion. "He said he was not worth it. I tried to dissuade him from leaving, but he insisted on following through with his decision."

"When did he leave?" Éowyn asked curiously. "You did not mention this in your letters; nor did Éomer."

"I did not tell you of it because I did not want to wind up speaking ill of Éomer," Gúthwyn said softly. "Tun has been gone for almost a year now. I thought for sure that he would come for the wedding, but Erkenbrand told me that he stayed behind to oversee the preparations in the others' absence."

She sighed, now missing her champion sorely. "Enough about this," she said. "What do you think of Lothíriel?"

Éowyn smiled. "She and Éomer are happy with each other—that is clear to see."

Gúthwyn nodded. "He makes her blush quite often."

"Aye," Éowyn chuckled; "I would imagine that our people are more open with their affections than those in Dol Amroth."

"Gondorians are uptight," Gúthwyn said off-handedly, smirking. "Did you notice how many odd looks I got from the nobles? They never troubled to disguise their disapproval of me caring for Hammel and Haiweth."

"That is because they thought they were yours, and it is well known that you are not married," Éowyn replied. "Adorable as those children may be—and certainly more well-behaved than any I have ever met—it does make one who has not met you before question your…" She trailed off, realizing everything that was wrong with completing the sentence.

Gúthwyn flushed, trying to keep her mind off of Haldor's hot breath and wandering hands. In an effort to change the subject, she asked, "Have you spoken much with Lothíriel?"

Éowyn shook her head. "I have not," she answered. "Though I think she is shy, for on the few occasions that we have conversed she says very little."

Gúthwyn shrugged. That was not the impression she had garnered of the princess. "It strange," she began, "but half of the time I talk to her it seems as if she does not like me. Yet the rest of the time, she is perfectly cordial."

Folding one of her garments, Éowyn said, "She might have wondered at Hammel and Haiweth and formed her own opinion about them; but I think it is more likely that she is nervous, and does not wish to ruin any chance of a relationship with you during her first days here."

Her sister may have been right, as she had certainly detected anxiety in the princess' normally aloof manner, but something inside Gúthwyn was doubtful. Yet she pushed it aside, not wanting to suspect ill of her brother's wife—and her queen.

"How have you and Faramir been?" she asked at length.

This occupied Éowyn for several minutes, and Gúthwyn heard all the tidings that had not found their way into letter form. On occasion, her sister mentioned romantic, caring things that Faramir had done for her: A picnic in front of the sunset on her birthday, a flower slipped in her hair at unexpected moments, sweet compliments that made her blush furiously as if she were still a young girl. Gúthwyn listened to these with a painful searing in her heart, but kept her thoughts to herself. It was enough for her that Éowyn be content.

There was almost nothing left to unpack when Éowyn finished her story, turned to Gúthwyn, arched a perfectly-shaped eyebrow, and asked, "What about you, sister?"

Startled by the suddenness of the question, Gúthwyn's reply was somewhat flustered. "Oh, I have been fine," she said. "It is dreadfully cold here, but—"

"No, not _that_," Éowyn said, looking half-amused and half-exasperated. "Marriage! Certainly you deserve to be just as happy as I am with Faramir. Éomer has found someone, as well—what about my baby sister?"

Gúthwyn smiled at the nickname, but her insides had turned cold. "I have no intention of marrying."

Éowyn's eyes widened, and then she lowered her voice. "Is it because of what… what he did?"

There was a wince.

"Gúthwyn, I promise, you have nothing to worry about," Éowyn assured her, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Your husband will do anything in his power to not hurt you. Faramir—"

"It is not that," Gúthwyn said stiffly. "I just am not interested in marriage. Honestly. I have already told Éomer this."

Brief flashes in her mind displayed Borogor's body sinking to the foliage. She closed her eyes—heard the _thump_—and opened them to see Éowyn watching her concernedly.

"Sister, do you really desire to go through life without loving someone?" she asked quietly.

_I already have loved someone._

"I have Hammel and Haiweth."

"They are not the same as having a husband," Éowyn responded, shaking her head. "And what happens when they grow old enough to seek their own spouses? Hammel is only eleven years younger than you; it will happen sooner than you think."

"Éowyn, please!" Gúthwyn cried, not at all wanting to face the reality that someday she would not be caring for the children.

Éowyn was silent, but in her eyes there was pity, and Gúthwyn loathed it more than anything else. "I am going to turn in for the night," she said. "Would you like me to help you with something before I go?"

"No, thank you," Éowyn replied. "Gúthwyn, I am sorry. I did not mean to distress you."

"I am fine," Gúthwyn told her, and left the room before the memories of Borogor overwhelmed her.


	27. The Moonlit Stables

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twenty-Seven:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

It was a cold day in January when Éomer Éadig, King of Rohan, married Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. As the sun reached its summit at the height of noon, he stood upon the dais in front of his people. Lothíriel was beside him, and her hand was set in his. Before them was the Prince Imrahil, and he bore a cushion upon which was a delicate golden crown. Joy was in his face, reflected in the eyes of his daughter and her husband.

With the gaze of everyone in the Golden Hall upon him, Imrahil lifted the circlet and gently placed it on Lothíriel's dark head. The Queen of Rohan smiled briefly, and exchanged a soft word with her father. Imrahil then turned to the Rohirrim, the Gondorians, and his own subjects who had traveled from afar to see this wedding and the long-awaited alliance of two countries. "All hail Queen Lothíriel!" he called.

Like a rippling wave, the people knelt, even Aragorn Elessar and Arwen Undómiel. Gúthwyn sank to her knees, a broad grin on her face as she honored her brother and his wife. Éowyn was next to her, and the two of them beamed happily at each other before returning their attentions back to Éomer. He and Lothíriel were both flushing, their cheeks tinted pink and their eyes sparkling with elation.

For a moment, Gúthwyn surveyed the crowd around her. The children were not too far away; they had been under the care of Cobryn, who was now watching the proceedings with a faint grin tugging at his lips. Near them were the sons of Imrahil. Erchirion and Amrothos were fixated by their sister—her beauty was great, and a delight was on her which they had rarely seen—but as she looked at Elphir he glanced up and saw her. A smile overcame him, and before long they were both beaming like fools.

At a word from Imrahil, they all rose. A new throne had been brought upon the dais, somewhat smaller than Éomer's, but carved just as intricately with symbols of horses running across open fields. Lothíriel lowered herself gracefully into it, and Éomer sat down in his own gilded chair. They were still holding hands.

One by one, the people marched up to pay their respects to the king and his queen, and to wish the newlyweds well as they did so. Gúthwyn and Éowyn waited patiently as the guards knelt before Lothíriel and swore their service to her; they observed the nobility bowing and curtsying with eloquent words of goodwill; then they remained in place as King Elessar, Queen Arwen, Prince Imrahil, and his sons all had their turn to speak to Éomer and Lothíriel.

At last, they were able to approach. Éowyn and Faramir went slightly before her, having more social status. They said words of congratulations to the couple, and chatted for a few moments about what they hoped the future would bring. When they had finished, Gúthwyn came forward and curtsied.

"I am glad for you, brother," she said, slipping out of the formalities with a smile. "Lothíriel, my lady, welcome to the family."

Éomer nodded, a wide grin adorning his face. Lothíriel replied, "Now we shall have the opportunity to make up for all of the time we have lost in furthering our acquaintance."

"I am looking forward to it," Gúthwyn answered happily.

"And what of Hammel and Haiweth?" Lothíriel questioned. Was it Gúthwyn's imagination, or did her tone turn slightly cool? "Shall I have the honor of meeting them, as well? They seem like such delightful children."

"Aye, they are wonderful," Gúthwyn agreed, grinning. "I am lucky to have them."

Lothíriel raised an eyebrow, but it was then that Éomer asked, "Where are they?"

"With Cobryn, I believe," Gúthwyn told him.

At an inquiring look from the queen, Éomer explained, "One of my advisors, and a close friend of Gúthwyn. He has a mind to match yours, my dear wife."

"Then I hope to meet him soon," Lothíriel said, smiling at the compliment.

They parted then, Éomer and Lothíriel remaining on their thrones and Gúthwyn going over to Elphir. She had not spoken to him for some time—not since they had danced at the welcome feast for King Elessar of Gondor and Prince Faramir of Ithilien—and wished to remedy that. Yet he was playing a little game with Alphros, and she lingered a few feet away, undetected as she watched them.

It was not long, however, before Elphir glanced up and noticed her. The grin on his face widened, as did Alphros' when he saw what his father was looking at.

"Sorry," Gúthwyn apologized, coming over to them. "I did not mean to interrupt your game."

"Not at all," Elphir said, and she was reminded of something.

"Have you thought at all on my proposal?" she asked innocently.

Elphir's face flushed the tiniest amount.

"What proposal?" Alphros wanted to know, tugging at his father's hand and stumbling over the word. "What proposal?"

"I have challenged your father to a duel," Gúthwyn explained cheerily.

Alphros looked up at Elphir in confusion. "But, Papa…" he began, wrinkling his brow, "she is a girl."

Elphir laughed. "Aunt Lothíriel knows how to use a sword, albeit limitedly."

"But…"

"What do you think, son?" Elphir asked, winking at Gúthwyn. "Shall I accept her offer?"

Alphros glanced doubtfully at her. "Papa, you will win too easily!"

Gúthwyn concealed the smirk that was threatening to overcome her. "All the more reason for him to do it, is it not?" she questioned, smiling at the young boy. "If he is guaranteed a victory?"

"From what I have heard, that is a rather modest statement on your behalf," Elphir said, raising his eyebrows. "Your brother seems quite convinced that you have defeated him on a number of occasions."

It was true—she generally triumphed over Éomer whenever they sparred together—but she certainly did not win easily. Their clashes were always several minutes long, and he had also had his share of triumph.

"You beat Éomer?" Alphros demanded, his eyes wide in amazement.

"Aye, that I did," Gúthwyn confirmed, smiling to see him so awed.

"But he's a king!" the child exclaimed. "Not even Papa is a king!"

"To me, he will always be my dear brother," she said; "not royalty."

Elphir's eyes sparkled in amusement. "What say you now, Alphros?" he asked, clapping a hand down on his son's shoulder. "Is she a worthy opponent?"

"Yes!" Alphros agreed, nodding his head. "Are you two going to fight now?" He looked up at them eagerly, as if expecting them to draw their swords in the midst of the crowded hall.

Both Elphir and Gúthwyn chuckled. "No," Elphir replied. "Later, when there are less people around."

He met her eyes as he said this, and there was something in his gaze that made her blush.

* * *

The music was merry, accompanied by a rush of whirling dancers and gleefully shouting children. The entire population of Edoras had gathered within the Golden Hall, in addition to the delegations from Minas Tirith, Ithilien, and Dol Amroth. Meduseld was filled to bursting, but the spirits of all were lifted and no one thought of complaining. Indeed, they reveled in the atmosphere, and were bolstered by the flowing wine. 

In the midst of this was Gúthwyn, giggling as Elphir twirled her around and caught her gracefully in his arms once more. Her dancing skills were miserable compared to his, but that had not stopped him.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed as she accidentally stepped on his toes. "My friends have been trying to teach me, but nothing seems to sink in…"

"You are not that bad," Elphir answered with a grin. "I have endured worse."

Laughing, she said, "I highly doubt that."

His response was to guide her through another turn. "See?" he asked, once they had finished. "That was fine."

"I hope you are wearing thick boots," was her response.

"I put them on just before the feast," he replied, and she giggled.

"That is good to hear."

They continued dancing until the song had finished, at which point he suggested going over to speak with Éomer and Lothíriel. Gúthwyn agreed with this, and they made their way towards the high table. The king and queen were conversing quietly with each other, having already had their fill of the music. It was close to midnight at this point; soon, they would retire to their chambers.

Indeed, she thought she detected a trace of nervousness about Lothíriel, though she greeted her and Elphir cordially. "We were watching the two of you occasionally," the queen commented. "Elphir, you appear to have outgrown your second left foot."

Éomer nearly choked on his mead. Gúthwyn grinned as Elphir shot a good-natured glare at his sister. "I seem to recall yourself once similarly deficient in the art of dancing, Lothíriel."

"Yes, dear brother," Lothíriel acknowledged, "but I managed to pass that stage, whereas you, alas, chose to concentrate more on the sword, and so fell rather far behind."

"That makes two of us," Gúthwyn said. "If Elphir is a poor dancer, then I am nothing short of abysmal."

"You certainly have not tried very hard, sister," Éomer smirked. "The only reason I have not forced you into lessons is because, as you put it, they would be more miserable for the instructor than the pupil."

They sat there for several more moments, exchanging jibes and laughter. Some of the guards joined them, adding to the ribbing. Gúthwyn found herself at the mercy of Elfhelm and Gamling, both of whom managed to recall a great deal of embarrassing stories from her childhood. She cringed to think of how wild and untamed she had been as a young girl; mercifully, Haiweth was nothing like that.

"I remember once," Elfhelm said mischievously, leaning closer, "when I had come to Edoras for a business meeting, you insisted on playing 'ride the pony.'"

A brilliant blush spread across her cheeks. In his haler days, Théoden had often put her on his back and raced around the room like a horse, much to her delight. "Elfhelm, I am sorry," she replied.

"You were quite persistent," Elfhelm snickered. "Of course, at the time, it was not so amusing. And I could not refuse you!"

"Why not?" Lothíriel inquired, arching an eyebrow.

"My sister," Éomer said, smiling, "had perfected the wide-eyed, innocent look by the time she was four. I do believe she could even cry upon command. Hardly anyone was immune to it."

"Not I," Gamling muttered ruefully. "Only Théoden—and that was solely concerning bedtime."

Éomer laughed, turning to Gúthwyn. "Do you remember the game we used to play?" he asked. "Where our uncle would have to chase us around and catch us in order to send us off to bed?"

Giggling, Gúthwyn responded, "How could I forget? You always helped Éowyn and I. Théoden could never get you—it was always Théodred."

Someone else added another comment to the banter, sending them off on a different tangent, but Gúthwyn had fallen silent at the mention of her cousin. She missed him so much that the ache in her heart was second to only that for Borogor. He had perished only days before her arrival in Edoras… Never would she forget the sight of his body, white as the _simbelmynë _under which he was now buried, with his cold hands clasped around the hilt of his sword. He had died without knowing that she was alive, without knowing that she was steadily making her way towards home.

"Gúthwyn?"

Startled, she glanced up to see that Éomer and Lothíriel had risen, arm in arm, and were looking down at her.

"Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts," she apologized.

"We are going to turn in for the night," Éomer explained. Lothíriel glanced at him; her face, Gúthwyn noticed, was paler than usual. One hand gave a nervous twitch, and then was still.

"Oh," she said awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. "Goodnight, then."

"Try to get some sleep, my lord," Gamling admonished, to the hearty laughter of the other guards. "Your wife is a beautiful woman, but we want you to be somewhat attentive at the council tomorrow."

"Do nothing that I would not do," another added, garnering a round of heavy sniggering.

"Excuse me," Gúthwyn said, seeing Lothíriel's face flush at other ribald comments that were being made, "there are two ladies present."

Most of them quieted down, chuckling as they apologized.

"That said…" Gúthwyn began, and rose to whisper in her brother's ear, "I expect to be an aunt soon, Éomer. Pray do not disappoint me."

Éomer glared at her, though he could not help laughing. "Now, now," he replied, "let us retire in peace."

To a chorus of "goodnight" from the others, Éomer and Lothíriel departed. Gúthwyn watched as they spoke briefly with various nobles before exiting the hall, Lothíriel's hand holding her husband's tighter than usual. The conversation around her turned to other subjects, but Gúthwyn remained in her own thoughts. She could not help but be extremely conscious about what her brother was about to do; nor could she keep away the memories that were beginning to swirl around her as thick as the fog through which she had walked in her dreams.

As if still in a nightmare, her mind forced itself to relive the torment of her first stay in Haldor's tent. What a fool she had been… The hot breath, the hands sliding down her thighs, the threats and pain and humiliation… She could recall it perfectly, could hear and see and feel him do all those things. He was circling her, muttering in her ear, hissing a string of venomous words. _You are worthless… Not deserving to lick the dirt off my boots… You are a whore… I will kill those children, if you do not obey me… Beg for your freedom, beg…_

Her palms were sweating, and she was struggling against the nausea welling up inside her. _Please, go away,_ she found herself praying. _Leave me alone._

_I will never go away,_ he snarled back. _You will never be rid of me!_

This was not real. Haldor was dead. He could not hurt her. It was her own mind that was doing this to her, her own imbalanced thoughts. Gúthwyn clasped her hands together, trying to keep at least some part of her steady.

_Crash._ She jumped nearly a foot in the air as someone close by tripped and dropped several pewter tankards. The noise reverberated against her head, causing her to cringe.

"Are you all right?"

It was Elphir, looking at her concernedly as he waited for an answer.

"I-I am fine," she stuttered, surreptitiously wiping her clammy hands on her dress. "Actually, I think I will go and get some fresh air. Excuse me."

She left before he could say goodbye, and began making her way towards the doors. Her steps quickened as she went; she was desperate to get out of the suddenly stifling crowd, and not smell the now nausea-inducing scent of ale. Haldor followed her, always at her shoulder, never once relenting in his verbal assaults. _Look at you, running away like the coward you are. You cannot even stand the thought of me! You are pathetic._

Gúthwyn was nearly sprinting by the time she reached the doors. Several people paused and glanced curiously at her—Aragorn was among them, and she winced—but she paid them little heed. All that mattered to her was getting out of the Golden Hall and ridding herself of Haldor. She felt trapped, as a wild animal is within a cage… the cage in which she had been held, left to the mercy of the Wargs and the darkness…

The instant the doors closed behind her, and she was alone on the landing of Meduseld, she leaned over the edge and vomited. When she was done, she spat out the last of the bile and stood up, now trying to quell the trembling of her body. In the safety of solitude, it had begun shaking uncontrollably; she could not stop it, as much as she could not stop the rising and setting of the sun. The air around her was cold, far more so than was comfortable for her. The hairs on her body were standing almost painfully on edge.

She began pacing, with each turn trying to throw off the recollections of Haldor. _He is dead,_ she reminded herself firmly. _He cannot touch you, or speak to you, or even watch you. Stop being so weak!_

Leaning against one of the pillars, Gúthwyn took several deep breaths, counting to five each time and then releasing. She hated this frailty, this quality within her that she could not be rid of. Mordor had turned her into a shadow of her former self, as one of the Wraiths that had haunted the Ringbearer's footsteps. Before her capture, she had been proud and courageous. Now, she was broken and craven, incapable of even defeating the nightmares of her past.

At length, she decided to go on a walk, figuring it would do her good. Wrapping her arms around herself against the chill, she descended the stairs and halted, debating what to do. Should she go down the empty main road, and from there climb the watchtower to observe the night sky? Or would she find more comfort in a practice session, wielding her blade against unseen foes? Or would it be better to go on a ride with Heorot?

She chose the latter. If she had had Framwine with her, she would have gone to the training grounds, but she did not wish to have to work her way back through the throne room to get him. Shivering, she turned to the stables, and began walking towards them. Hopefully no one would inquire where she had gone; perhaps she would leave a note, in case someone started searching.

She was in the midst of wondering if there was spare parchment in one of the stalls when she heard a strange noise from behind the stables. Someone was groaning. Her curiosity piqued, and hoping that whoever it was was not in pain, Gúthwyn went cautiously towards the source. The sounds became louder as she drew closer; they seemed familiar to her for some reason, but she could not quite place it.

Then she rounded the corner of the stables and froze. Half lit by the moon's rays was Lebryn, his face buried in the neck of Gamling's niece. Soft moans were coming from her mouth as he thrust into her. She was holding the bunched up ends of her skirts around her hips; both of them were bare from the waist down.

Horrified, she stared at them, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight. Her head was pounding. Lebryn's hand was wandering all over the woman, making her gasp in pleasure as he kneaded her breast with a rough palm. Gúthwyn felt as if she were going to be sick again. She pressed a fist over her mouth.

After only a few seconds that seemed like hours, Lebryn came up for air, panting heavily. That was when he noticed her. Their eyes locked; hers were filled with revulsion and his with a terrible guilt. Gamling's niece also glanced up. Her mouth opened silently as she saw the king's sister standing not five yards away from them.

"Gúthwyn," Lebryn began, his voice strangled.

The sound of him speaking was as the lifting of a trance. Without replying, Gúthwyn turned and ran away, her feet slapping at the ground. She made it only to the stairs before she was sick, retching for nearly three minutes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the figure of a woman dashing hurriedly towards her home. More vomit spewed from her mouth.

Finally, her fear of seeing Lebryn again greater than her nausea, she wiped her mouth and darted towards the doors. She would not return to the festivities; she could not, after all she had seen. Nor was she even capable of mustering the strength to tell Gamling, for though she was disgusted by what Lebryn had done, she knew that he would be beaten within an inch—or less—of his life if she did.

Gúthwyn staggered into the hall once the doors had opened, and was almost immediately overwhelmed by the powerful stench of mead. On no other occasion had it bothered her so much as it did now. Half in a blind panic, half in a desperate rush to get to her chambers before she threw up again, she all but sprinted along the edges of the throne room towards the private passage.

She had almost reached the safety of the hallway when someone moved in front of her, blocking her path. It was Cobryn. "What are you doing?" he asked worriedly, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I saw you running—you look as if you are about to be sick…"

Something wet began spilling down her cheeks. "Let go!" she cried, wrenching away from him. Without a backward glance, she tore down the passage, nearly crashing into the door of her room as she fumbled for the knob. When she had finally opened it, she slipped inside and slammed it shut, locking it as swiftly as she might.

Then she ran for the chamber pot and crouched over it, heaving up the entire contents of her stomach. Tears mixed with her vomit, running unchecked into the vessel.

"_Why did you have to do that?_" she choked out, and it was not to Lebryn that she spoke.

* * *

**A/N:** There was something I was wondering about. I noticed the last two chapters didn't get any reviews--this isn't the issue--and I know that, since I posted the past three really close to each other, some people might be having problems reading them all so quickly. Should I save all of my posts until the weekend, so that it would be easier for everyone to catch up? Or should I keep posting new chapters whenever I write them? 

Let me know what you guys think!


	28. Ageless Stars

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twenty-Eight:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Tears were still streaming unabated down Gúthwyn's cheeks when footsteps—someone walking with a cane—sounded from outside her chambers. Less than a second later, the door shook and was flung open. In her haste, she had not bolted it properly. Now Cobryn strode in, his face taut with worry. He saw her kneeling on the floor, leaning over the chamber pot. With surprising speed he crouched down beside her.

"What is wrong?" he asked urgently.

Gúthwyn could not stop crying. In an effort to hide her shame from him, she curled into a ball and buried her face in her knees, allowing the fabric of her dress—her white dress—to become soaked.

"Gúthwyn, look at me!" Cobryn demanded, his hand grasping her shoulder tightly. "What happened?"

Her entire body was convulsing with the horror of what she had just seen. She whimpered, shaking her head. "G-Go away!" she cried, her chest heaving up and down with sobs.

Cobryn reached under her chin and used his fingers to lift it irresistibly upwards. She cringed in terror, inching away from him. Her breath was beginning to come short; small, shuddering gasps were wracking her frame. Panic flowed through her when he did not let go.

"Gúthwyn, listen!" he ordered, roughly grabbing her other shoulder and jolting her back and forth. "You need to calm down!"

She tried to pull herself from his clutch, but his hold on her was too tight. It felt as if she were being suffocated. All this time, tears were rolling down her face.

"Gúthwyn!" She found herself staring straight into Cobryn's eyes. They were blazing with an intensity that she had never seen before. Her gasps were lessened, but her sobs only increased.

His grip on her shoulders was now so tight that it was painful. "I want you to take deep breaths, do you understand?" he questioned sternly, making sure that their gazes were locked. "Deep breaths."

She struggled to do as he had told her. Inhale, count to ten, exhale. But it was not until the twentieth attempt that she was able to complete the exercise without gasping.

"Now," he said, once she had gained a semblance of calm, "what happened?"

Her tears were renewed, and she had to speak through them. "I-I-I saw L-Lebryn," she began, briefly putting her face in her hands and watching as they came away wet. "H-H-He was…" How could she convey it without breaking down more than she already had?

"He was what?" Cobryn asked quietly.

"He was with… G-G-Gamling's niece," she whispered. "_B-Behind the stables!_"

Cobryn's eyes widened. "You saw them making love to each other?"

Gúthwyn was almost howling with misery now. Cobryn did not, could not possibly, understand the chord that the sight had struck within her. She bowed her head and wept, trying to conceal her embarrassment from his piercing eyes.

"Is everything all right?"

The two of them started and glanced up. Éowyn was standing in the doorway, looking concernedly down at them. Faramir was just behind her.

Gúthwyn froze in horror, staring at the Steward of Gondor. His face flushed, and he bowed. "I do not wish to intrude," he quickly said, and disappeared from sight.

Éowyn watched him go; then she turned back to Gúthwyn and entered the room. "Sister, what happened?" she asked softly, kneeling down next to her.

Gúthwyn could not speak around the lump in her throat. In the end, it was Cobryn who answered for her. "She walked in on Lebryn and Gamling's niece," he explained grimly. "They were behind the stables."

Much like Cobryn, Éowyn's eyes turned round with shock, but hers also contained the knowledge of what it was that had frightened her younger sister. "Oh, Gúthwyn," she said, and drew the crying woman towards her. "I am so sorry."

Gúthwyn felt herself being rocked back and forth, and her back rubbed soothingly by Éowyn. She could not remember ever being held this way by a woman, as if her mother was still alive and comforting her after a nightmare. This only made the tears fall faster. She was disgusted by what Lebryn had done; she could not rid herself of the image of his hand wandering all over the woman's body. She felt as if she were covered in dirt and grime, but was unable to remove any of it.

Gradually, however, Éowyn's gentle voice began to calm her down. Her tears grew quieter, and the knot in her chest was loosening somewhat. It was replaced by feelings of embarrassment, that she had lost control of herself over so small a thing. Was it not the natural course of things, for a man and a woman to make love to each other? Was her brother now not doing the very same thing? Had Éowyn not done so on the night of her wedding?

_Why am I so weak?_ she wondered desperately.

Yet when at last she pulled away from Éowyn, her sister's countenance had not changed. Cobryn was looking in bafflement between the two of them, his eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what had so bothered his friend.

"I think you should get some rest now," Éowyn said, keeping a steadying hand on her shoulder. "It is well past midnight."

Wretchedly, she nodded, and allowed Éowyn to help her to her feet. Cobryn stood as well, and said, "I will return in a few minutes."

"Th-Thank you," Gúthwyn whispered, swallowing hard.

Once they were alone, and the door had closed behind Cobryn, Éowyn went over to the dresser and took out a nightgown. "Here," she said, and then turned away to give Éomund's youngest daughter the privacy she needed. Not even the maids would she let see her unclothed—they would have been dumbfounded to see the scars criss-crossing her back, the Eye of Sauron still glaring dully from her wrist, the way her ribs jutted out against her pale, stretched skin.

When Gúthwyn was done, Éowyn turned back to face her. "Are you going to be fine?" she asked quietly.

Gúthwyn trembled a little, but nodded. "I-I am sorry for disturbing you and Faramir," she mumbled, a flush coming over her cheeks.

"Say nothing of it," Éowyn replied firmly. "Come, let us get you into bed."

It was as if she were a child once more. Gúthwyn slid underneath the thick covers while Éowyn stood over her, smoothing long strands of dark hair away from her face.

"Éowyn?"

"Yes?"

"Can you not tell Éomer?" Gúthwyn asked timidly, reaching out and taking her sister's hand. "I-I do not want him to… to be worried… this is his wedding night, after all."

Éowyn hesitated.

"Please?"

"As you wish," Éowyn relented softly. "Sleep well."

Gúthwyn was about to respond in kind when there was a knock on the door, and Cobryn's voice filtered into the room. "May I come in?" he asked.

Éowyn went over and opened the door, stepping aside as Cobryn came into the room. The two of them exchanged quiet words that Gúthwyn could not hear.

"Sister, I am going to bed now," Éowyn informed her. "If you need anything, do not hesitate to tell me."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said, privately thinking that she would never enter Éowyn's chambers while she was sleeping with Faramir.

Éowyn left the room then, and Cobryn approached the bed. He pulled up a chair and sat down in it. "What was that about?" he inquired seriously.

"I-I just…" Gúthwyn began, and trailed off. "Just seeing Lebryn…"

Cobryn waited patiently for her to collect her thoughts. Gúthwyn stared down at the blankets, wondering if she should confide in him what Haldor had truly done to her. Her friend knew next to nothing about the Elf—only that terribly cruel were words not sufficient enough to describe him, and she had killed him for it at Amon Hen. But at the idea of telling the whole tale again, she quailed. She was not ready for it.

"D-Do you remember," she said at length, "w-when you walked in on the… the Serpent and I?"

"I do not think I will ever forget it," Cobryn answered heavily. Gúthwyn, too, felt the weight of his words. If he had come in but a few minutes later, Gríma would have had his way with her. Haldor would not have been the first to mark his territory upon her body.

Gúthwyn's voice was strangled as she continued, "I-In Mordor…" There was a long pause until she could gather up the courage to plunge ahead. "Someone succeeded."

There. She had done it. She watched apprehensively as Cobryn's mouth opened slightly, and his hand curled into a white fist.

"Was it Haldor?" he at last asked, his words choking on disgust.

She did not have the strength to do anything other than nod. For several minutes, there was silence.

"I should have known," Cobryn said eventually, his features hardened with bitterness. "Your fear... it was unnaturally strong."

_It still is,_ Gúthwyn thought to herself, fighting against the tears that sought to reclaim mastery over her once more.

"Is there anything I can do?" he wanted to know, still looking as if he had swallowed something revolting.

She shook her head. "I just want to forget it ever happened. I told you because... because I know I can trust you."

"I will not breathe a word of this to anyone," he vowed. "Gúthwyn, I..." he could not finish the sentence. Nor did she need him to.

"Thank you for helping me tonight," she said quietly. Her head was beginning to ache; she needed some rest.

"Do not mention it," was his reply. He sounded as if he were still lost in his thoughts; his eyes displayed alternating fury and helplessness. "Sleep well."

She nodded, and was about to close her eyes when he spoke again. "Gúthwyn?"

"Yes?"

He looked at her. "Should you ever need me, I will be in the hall."

Relief—pure, wild relief—swept in waves over her body. Once again, Cobryn had correctly interpreted her thoughts. "Thank you so much," she murmured.

"Goodnight," he answered, and left.

Gúthwyn buried herself under a mass of covers and awaited the inevitable nightmare.

* * *

Once outside Gúthwyn's room, Cobryn strode down the passage into the throne room. Servants were scurrying about, hoping to clean the hall in enough time for them to get a few hours' worth of sleep, but he paid them no heed. Behind the cover of a large pillar, he pounded his fist against the wall. Fury raced through him, raw and passionate. _Curse you!_ he yelled silently at the Valar. _Curse you for all you have done to the ones I love!_

And he was powerless to stop them, as always. Before Gúthwyn's arrival in Isengard, both Feride and Chalibeth had experienced the abuse that made his blood run cold. They did not have to tell him for him to know it had happened—it was all too evident in how, for weeks afterwards, they had experienced nightmares; how every male on the edges of their vision was suspect, and to be cringed from; how they had not looked anyone in the face for days. At the time, he had only been far younger; he did not know how to comfort them. He had done nothing.

When Gúthwyn had appeared in the doorway of their home, wide-eyed and confused, yet with a proud streak in her that had done more harm than he cared to recall, he had vowed to protect her. He had already failed with Feride and Chalibeth; it was as if the Valar had given him another chance. But they had taken it away from him, and he had endured the long wait of her stay in the cage. Chalibeth's blood had seeped into the floor of the stables, and he could not even give her a proper burial. Nor had he the skills to heal the bite marring Gúthwyn's face when she was released; neither had he even remembered to give her water. Abaudia had brought her back from unconsciousness, while he had done nothing.

And then Saruman had called her to his office. She had returned in a state of madness. The dreaded name of Mordor had fallen from her lips. He had not believed her. None of them had. It was the word of an Uruk—which should have been worth nothing compared to Gúthwyn's—that had at last convinced him. His dear friend was to be sent to the Black Land, and he would not be able to watch over her and guide her from harm's way. But what was there to be done against the will of Saruman? Nothing. He had bid her farewell, and done nothing.

He had watched with horrified eyes as the Uruks rounded up the women and children, driving them into the Warg stables with eager whips. He had heard their screams and seen the fear on their face as, one by one, they disappeared, and were never seen again. Even their bodies had been absent in the silent day that followed, when Cobryn and Lebryn had fed the same Wargs that had feasted on their friends. All that he had been able to do was hide Feride and Onyveth in their dwelling. Yet they had known that it would not last. And still he had done nothing.

Then he had stood aside as the Uruks dragged his wife and Onyveth out of the room, preparing to march them and the rest of the discovered women down to the stables. His eyes had met Feride's in that moment, and the calmness with which she accepted her fate had shattered him. She had deserved none of the death that was doled to her—and she had gotten it not because she had disobeyed someone, but because her master had decided that she was no longer necessary. If there was something to be learned from the tales of old, he should have fought to the death against the Uruks, and by doing so rescue the others from what awaited them. But he had done nothing.

When at last the Uruk-hai had left Isengard to battle the people of Rohan, incurring the wrath of the Ents, they had given him and Lebryn what he had believed only a fading dream: Freedom. Yet it had come with a price. Because of his handicap, Gwollyn and Regwyn had allowed him to climb up the broken stone wall first. He had moved too slowly; before they had time to scramble above the flood, the water had swallowed them. The next time he had seen them, their corpses were growing cold. Once again, he had done nothing.

And now this. Gúthwyn. He had known that the past still held her in its snare. Did all of them not walk under the shadow of their memories, trying to learn from their mistakes? Did scholars not peruse old scrolls in hopes of discovering the answers to ancient mysteries? He himself was not free from his days at Isengard. But to see his formerly proud friend reduced to tears in such a manner… that, more than anything, had shown him just how fragile she truly was. Once again, he found himself unable to help someone he cared about.

Nor had the new piece in the puzzle of her time in Mordor affected him any less. His heart twisted to know that she had not escaped that which was almost certain for a woman slave to be put through. She had always been so innocent, even to the point of naivety, that to see her ravaged eyes and hear her hoarse whispers had felt worse than fifty whip lashes. He found himself wondering if Haldor had only raped her once, if it had just been one night that he had forced himself on her.

"My lord?"

Cobryn was dragged out of his thoughts by a tentative voice. Glancing over, he saw one of the younger maids standing a few feet away. "Is everything all right, my lord?" she asked, and he realized that his fist was still on the pillar.

"Yes," he replied, lowering his arm. "My apologies. Excuse me."

With that, he began walking towards his pallet, making a mental note to reprimand Lebryn for his conduct in the morning. He was hardly surprised that his friend had been found making love to one of the women; the younger man was to be seen at a tavern nearly every night, usually with a drink in one hand and a fetching maid in the other. Nevertheless, he was still disappointed. From what he had heard, Gamling's niece was no blushing virgin herself, but that did not dismiss the fact that Lebryn's actions would be frowned down upon if they were discovered. Furthermore, he doubted that Gamling would not go out of his way to deliver a few angry words—or fists—to Lebryn, if he found out.

Cobryn sighed as he lowered himself onto his pallet, and though he soon closed his eyes it was long before he had drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_Miserable, worthless creature!  
__  
He was going to marry you, Gúthwyn, marry you!_

In the dark of night, the pale moon rested a few of its fingers on a woman's bed. She was tossing and turning, each time making a strange swatting motion.

_You disgust me!_

You are a pathetic whore! 

Another thrust of denial; bony fingers clawed at the air, grasping nothing. The blankets twisted and wrapped around a thin body.

_You are a disgrace!_

_I will be happy if you rot in the Void for doing this to his memory!_

_You horrible, disgusting, foul little bitch!_

A small chest was heaving frantically up and down, struggling to breathe. Sweat shone on the woman's white face. The stench of fear was in the air.

_Borogor. Dead._

_Tell me that you like it and want more!_

Her back arched; she rolled, and hovered dangerously close to the edge of the bed. Sharp gasps resounded throughout the room.

_So you are telling me that you do not remember kissing me—_

Lips clamped firmly together, the flesh turning white.

­_—touching me, _begging _me—_

There was a soft cry, a futile denial of a wrong done.

­_—making love to me—_

She twitched, and there was a quiet _thump_ as her body fell off the bed and landed on the ground. The scent of blood trickled into the air: Her head had glanced off of the nightstand. Still, she did not wake.

—_moaning… nothing?_

A whimper, faint, escaped from a quivering mouth.

_You have failed._

With a muffled cry of terror, Gúthwyn's eyes flared open. Darkness was surrounding her, and something was wrapped tightly about her chest. She could not move; she could not breathe. Panic overwhelmed her. In a blind frenzy she began writhing and kicking. _Where am I?_ she wondered in fright, not recognizing her surroundings. "Please…" she whispered, struggling against her bonds.

Tears were forming in her eyes before she broke free. Panting, clutching at her chest, she fearfully looked around her. After a few frantic seconds, she saw the flickering light of a candle. Focusing all of her concentration on the flame, she stared at it fiercely and willed herself to calm down. "C-Cobryn," she muttered, trying to remember what he had told her. _I want you to take deep breaths, do you understand?_

One, two, three, four. Gúthwyn counted them out, holding the air within her for as long as she was able to before expelling it. Slowly, she felt herself beginning to adjust to the dimness of the room. Now she knew it was her own. Somehow, she had fallen off of the bed. Shivers started working their way through her body. _What is wrong with me?_ she asked herself, cringing as the sensation of crawling skin settled over her arms.

The thing that had been suffocating her was a thick blanket; Gúthwyn wrapped it back around her, afraid of the shadows lurking in the corners untouched by the candlelight. Her teeth were chattering, but not from the cold. The voices in her nightmare still swirled throughout her chambers, whispering horrible things to her. _You are worthless…_

"I am not worthless," she said to the room, though her words were subdued. Delighted, sensing weakness, the voices pounced. _You say you are not worthless, but what were you doing less than five days after Borogor died? Whose bed were you in? And what of all the other times you serviced Haldor? The time you put your head between his legs and pleased him? Nay, you are not worthless—you are less than worthless!_

She could not win. Moaning softly, she clamped her hands over her ears, willing the voices to go away. It was then that she felt something wet close to her temple. Puzzled, she examined her fingers. The tips of them were red.

_Blood?_ she thought, perplexed. Her hand returned to search out the source of the wound. Gradually, she prodded at the skin, working her way up towards the hairline. At last, she found a small cut on the far right side of her forehead. She had no memory of how it had gotten there.

Slightly disturbed, Gúthwyn got to her feet, and stumbled over towards her dresser. Fear of the darkness propelled her movements, which became clumsy and awkward as her nervousness heightened. She nearly spilled a bottle of ink in one of the drawers as she tried to find some bandages; hastily, she righted it, and then tore off a piece of the gauze to press it against her head.

While she waited for the bleeding to stop, she looked around her room. Her gaze lingered on the bed: It was a mess of twisted and tangled blankets. She cringed, knowing that she would have to rearrange them so that the maids did not suspect anything. The rest of the area was lit by the usual five candles that she had burning throughout the night, though there were dark spaces between them that made her quickly avert her eyes.

Her thoughts gradually returned to her nightmare. She had been trapped inside the cage, with all of the voices surrounding her. They had whispered, always whispered, some of them within her very ear. The smell of blood and decaying corpses had made her choke. Haldor had been right outside—she had heard him, terrifyingly close to her—and his eyes were glinting like those of the Warg that had stared unceasingly at her during her punishment.

Gúthwyn shuddered, instinctively wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. A familiar nausea was uncoiling itself in her stomach. _Have I not thrown up enough today?_ she asked herself desperately.

But it was no use. She could feel what was left of her dinner turning unpleasantly inside her as she stared around her chambers. The walls were closing in on her. Darkness was falling, shrouding everything in its impenetrable veil. Soon her brow was coated in a thin layer of sweat. She began imagining that maggots were crawling over her arms and legs. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that they were not there, she could not stop her panicked jerking, or her hands from rubbing frantically at her skin.

Finally, she knew she could not stay in her room any longer. She dropped the bandage that she had been using. It floated to the ground, the patch of blood on it briefly illuminated by the moonlight. Lifting the blanket up slightly so that she did not trip on it, Gúthwyn strode towards her door and quickly opened it. Almost immediately, the dark passage seemed to stretch until it was miles long.

Gulping, praying that no one would hear her, she began edging her way down the corridor. Such was her state that only an unreasonable worry convinced her to stop at the children's room and check on them. Hammel and Haiweth were both fast asleep. A pang entered her heart to see them in such a state of innocence; she wished she had that luxury. But her purity was gone, stolen in all senses by Haldor.

Continuing down the hall, now trembling regularly, she paused for a moment once she had reached the throne room. A great number of the visitors were sleeping there, and she did not wish to wake anyone. Aside from the fact that it was not polite, she did not want to be asked any questions. For an instant, the possibility of turning back found its way into her mind. Yet she dismissed it, too scared to return to where there were long shadows and the walls were growing smaller.

Holding her breath, Gúthwyn tiptoed around the corner of the hall, and then walked along the outskirts of the room. Along the way, she glanced down at the faces of sleeping people. With the exception of Prince Imrahil, and King Elessar and Queen Arwen, who had been given private chambers, everyone else had laid out their pallets here. She saw some of Faramir's men, one of which she recognized as a former Ranger—wincing, she made a note to avoid him—as well as the princes of Dol Amroth. A small smile tugged at her lips when she saw that Alphros had curled up against Elphir; the man had his arm wrapped protectively around his son.

At length, she came to the doors, and pushed them open to reveal the night sky scattered with stars. Clutching the blanket closer, she was about to step outside when she caught sight of a lone figure standing at the top of the stairs. A pipe was clenched firmly in his mouth, expelling small clouds of smoke into the air. For warmth, he had garbed himself in a worn traveling cloak. A pair of stained boots were nearly falling off of his feet.

"Good evening," Aragorn said without turning around. "Or shall I say morning?"

Gúthwyn was unsure of whether he actually knew who she was. "It does not seem like the morning to me," she said quietly. "It is too dark."

The King's head twisted to look at her. She was acutely aware of how ridiculous she must have appeared, with a blanket covering her body and her hair likely disheveled from her frantic wriggling. A small blush crept over her pale face.

"What has you up at this hour?" he inquired, as if he could read her thoughts.

Not wanting to admit her weakness, she shrugged, and moved so that she was only a few feet away from him. Now she was able to see her people's land better. "I am not a good sleeper," was her answer.

Her remark received a thin smile. "Of that I am aware of. Nearly every time you had watch duty with the Fellowship, you practiced with your sword."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened in embarrassment. "You saw me?" she asked.

"In those times, I did not get much rest either," Aragorn replied, sighing. "Even now, it is sometimes more fitting for me to go outside and look at the stars."

She considered this. "They are a beautiful sight," she at last agreed, gazing up at the heavens. "To me, even more so after not seeing them for seven years."

A pang of sadness resounded within her as she said this, and she did not meet Aragorn's eyes. Yet he was silent. For a long time, neither of them spoke. She coughed a little on the fumes from his pipe; he sighed at the stars, as if he had been asking them for answers and they were withholding them.

At length, Gúthwyn shifted and glanced at him. "Éomer told me about your offer."

"Did he?" Aragorn asked. "I had half expected him not to."

"He had half a mind not to," Gúthwyn responded, exhaling. Though she had a thick blanket on, she shivered in the suddenly cold air. Stirring herself to speak, she said, "I decided not to go."

He did not say anything, and she took a deep breath. "I just… cannot go back there," she explained, involuntarily shuddering. "I never want to set foot in the Black Land again."

Aragorn nodded. "I understand," he said quietly. "I extended the offer to you not because I wanted you to go, but because you deserved the chance to if you wished. I knew Éomer had kept secret from you our journey to Isengard, and I thought that to do so again would be unfair to you."

Touched by this gesture, and glad that someone did not think her too frail to hear such news, Gúthwyn said, "Thank you."

For awhile, neither of them spoke. Then Aragorn's voice sounded into the quiet night. "What do they want?"

"Excuse me?" Gúthwyn asked, startled and confused.

His eyes held hers. "The slaves," he explained. "The members of Sauron's army that were captured, and forced to fight against their own people."

Gúthwyn drew a shaky breath. "They want freedom," she said. "They want… they want to forget all the time they spent in the Black Land. They want to see their families again. They want…" She trailed off, swallowed hard, and whispered, "A home. A place where they do not have to worry about their friends and brothers being killed in a fight not their own."

Aragorn looked at her, and in his eyes she saw the sorrow of someone with a burden weighing them down, so that the world became weary and the past dogged them with footsteps close behind. She knew the feeling well; her heart was heavy with regret, and painful memories of her life as a thrall haunted her nearly every night. There was an unspoken understanding between her and the Ranger, one that gave her a newfound respect for him.

They fell into silence once more, though it was not awkward. Slowly but surely, the grey of dawn began crawling across the sky. Gúthwyn felt her courage returning with the light, and decided to go back to her room and try to salvage some sleep. No matter what Lebryn had done—she trembled, and forced the incident from her mind—she would not let it disturb her rest.

Aragorn seemed to sense her imminent departure, and said, "I am sorry my company has not been of much help to you."

"Help?" Gúthwyn echoed, puzzled.

He looked at her. "You came here to seek what comfort there is in the ageless stars, did you not?"

Aragorn was still the shrewd man he had been as a Ranger. She flushed at how close to the mark he was. "I am fine," she replied.

In that moment, both of them knew how wrong she was. But they said nothing, and soon she had turned around and gone back inside.


	29. Alphros the Brave

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Twenty-Nine:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

When Gúthwyn awoke, she felt a sense of disorientation. The sunlight outside the small, high window in her room was not where it normally was. This confused her, and she set about quickly getting dressed. Once or twice, her fingers fumbled on her gown as she remembered the events of the previous night. It must have taken her almost two hours to finally fall back asleep again: though she had been exhausted, and still felt traces of such fatigue inside her, she was unable to rid herself of the image of Lebryn and Gamling's niece.

Angry at herself for being so weak, angry at Lebryn for being so careless, and even angry at Faramir for seeing her sobbing, Gúthwyn could not help slamming the door behind her a little more loudly than was necessary. But as she made her way down the hall, she became subdued once more, knowing that she would have to face those who had witnessed her breakdown—and also the cause of it.

However, when she passed into the throne room, she was surprised to see that there were very few people inside. Normally when she woke up, the nobility were having lunch, and there was no lack of friends to choose to eat with. Now, the only ones there were Éomer and Lothíriel, sitting across from Aragorn and Arwen. Imrahil was the fifth, and last, person at the table. The rulers were talking quietly amongst themselves; she noticed that her brother and his wife were holding hands. Nor did she miss the faint blush that seemed to be permanently staining Lothíriel's cheeks.

Unsure of whether they would welcome a sixth companion, Gúthwyn hesitantly approached their table. Lothíriel was the first to see her; yet Éomer was the one who spoke.

"Welcome, sister!" he said, motioning towards the empty space on his other side. "Surely you are not just waking up?"

"I am," Gúthwyn replied as she sat down.

The others all laughed; even Aragorn and Arwen were working hard to conceal their smiles.

"What is it?" she asked in bewilderment. "What time is it?"

"Almost four hours past noon," Éomer informed her, smirking. "I did not think even you could sleep that late."

Gúthwyn flushed. "I did not much rest last night," she admitted, and briefly met Aragorn's eyes. "That is probably why."

Éomer's brow knitted in concern; Lothíriel's did, as well, though something else flickered within her gaze. "Was everything all right?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn hastened to reassure him. "I was fine."

Feeling slightly uncomfortable with the eyes of everyone on her, she then asked, "Do you know where Éowyn is?"

"She and Faramir are on a walk," Éomer replied, smiling a little.

"Oh," Prince Imrahil began, and they all turned to him. "My lady Gúthwyn, forgive me for not mentioning this earlier, but I just remembered that my son was searching for you."

"Elphir?" Gúthwyn inquired. Éomer glanced at her, his eyebrows slightly raised in what appeared to be a half-smirk. Lothíriel's were slanted downward.

"The same," Imrahil acknowledged.

"Then, if you will all excuse me, I shall go find him. He is likely hoping to take me up on my offer," Gúthwyn said.

"What offer?" Éomer questioned, looking wary.

"A tour around the city," Gúthwyn explained, knowing that her brother had assumed it to be a challenge to a duel. "It was a grievance from his last stay here: I was most displeased to find out that he had not been shown around Edoras." She shot a pointed look at Éomer. "That, my dear brother, should have been your duty. The Valar know what else you forgot to do in the presence of Lothíriel!"

Imrahil, Aragorn, and Arwen chuckled, though the newlyweds' faces both turned a faint red.

"Do not worry, Éomer," Gúthwyn said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I am speaking in jest. You had other things to concern yourself with."

Then she smiled, bid farewell to those at the table, and walked lightly out of the Golden Hall. The memories of last night were beginning to fade from her mind; as she descended the stairs to merge onto the main street, a broad grin was on her face. She took a deep breath and let it out, delighting in the scent of the horses and the sounds of the people going about their daily business.

"There you are!"

Knowing who it would be, Gúthwyn turned around to see Elphir approaching her. "Good afternoon," she said, smiling as Alphros tried to tug his father along and make him walk faster. "Hello, Alphros the Brave."

Alphros beamed proudly. "I am going to be the bravest when I grow up!" he declared, his chest puffing out.

Elphir winked at Gúthwyn. "Even braver than I?"

"Twice as brave as you!" Alphros declared.

Gúthwyn could not suppress a giggle at this, but Alphros took it to be an admiring one, and his smile grew larger.

"Elphir," she at length said, "your father mentioned that you were looking for me."

"Indeed, I was," Elphir replied. "I was wondering if I might receive my tour today."

"Of course," Gúthwyn agreed happily. "What of your brothers? Do they wish to see the city, as well?"

Elphir shook his head. "They are down at the training grounds," he responded.

"Then, in that case," Gúthwyn began, "we shall go see them after we are done, and then perhaps you could be persuaded to keep your word about our duel?"

Before Elphir had time to answer, Alphros jumped up and down. "Yes, please, Papa!" he begged. "Please do it!"

"I will not break a promise," the prince informed his son. "You shall see me fighting before the end of the day."

Though Gúthwyn tried very hard to conceal it, a small, faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

* * *

The afternoon passed enjoyably. Gúthwyn, Elphir, and Alphros walked around the city, the latter two listening as their guide pointed out all there was to see in Edoras. Alphros, in particular, was delighted with all the new sights, and more than once broke away from the two of them to go frolic around a fountain, or a rock, or a large building. 

"I am sorry he is not so attentive," Elphir apologized the fifth time this happened. "He has never been here before, and is unused to seeing anything outside of Dol Amroth."

"I do not mind," Gúthwyn said contentedly. "Even now, Haiweth is the same way. I cannot hold onto her long before she finds some friends she wants to play with."

"What of Hammel?" Elphir questioned after a comfortable pause. "Does he, too, have many companions?"

Gúthwyn sighed a little. "Unfortunately, that does not to me seem to be the case," she said. "His interests lie more in his studies than in socializing, or even the ways of the sword."

"That is a shame," Elphir replied. "Yet he certainly appears to be an intelligent boy, and that is not a bad thing."

"No, it is not," she admitted. "I just sometimes wish that he had friends his own age."

Alphros came back to them, pointing excitedly at the haystack he had just danced around. "Can I climb it, Papa?" he asked, his eyes wide and innocent. "Please?"

"Do you recall what happened the last time you did so?" Elphir wanted to know, shaking his head.

Alphros paused and frowned, struggling to remember.

"You fell through the entire thing," Elphir reminded him, "and made a complete mess of yourself."

Grinning sheepishly, Alphros quickly switched the subject. "Can we go to the training grounds now, then? Please?"

Elphir exchanged a glance with Gúthwyn. "What do you think?" he asked quietly.

"You have seen just about all there is to see," Gúthwyn said, smiling at Alphros' impatience. "I shall go and change out of this dress, and then I will meet you there."

The prince nodded, and after she waved at Alphros she left the father and son. Making her way back up the streets, answering the calls of several people as she went, she soon found herself at the bottom of the stairs. Erkenbrand was coming down them.

"Good afternoon, my lady," he said politely. "I would have imagined you to be at the training grounds by now."

"I am about to change out of my gown, as a matter of fact," Gúthwyn informed him. "Will I see you there?"

He smiled. "I have promised Gamling that he will lose quite terrifically in a match against his superior this afternoon, and I would hate to break my word."

She giggled. "I wish you both the best of luck."

They parted then, and she hastened her steps to arrive at the doors. The guards opened them for her; she thanked them and strode inside. It was in the throne room that she saw Cobryn, walking down the hall with Aldor. Neither of them noticed her.

"She clearly has no interest," Cobryn was saying, narrowing his eyes at Aldor. "Besides, is one wedding not enough?"

"I have told you before, there is hope of a stronger political alliance with—"

At that moment, Cobryn glanced up and marked her presence. With a wave of his hand, he silenced Aldor; the man started when he saw her approaching them.

"Good day, my lady," he said, bowing slightly.

Gúthwyn returned the greeting, and then said cautiously, "I hope it is not me that you were talking about."

The looks that the two advisors gave each other confirmed her suspicions. "Aldor, please, listen to Cobryn," she said, trying not to shiver at the thought of marriage. "He is right on both counts."

Aldor looked embarrassed, and shuffled on his feet before saying gruffly, "My apologies."

"Are you about to go to the training grounds?" Cobryn questioned then, raising his eyebrows. "You are still in your dress; yet normally at this time you have been there for several hours at least."

"I woke up rather late today," Gúthwyn explained, flushing a little. "I was just about to go down, actually."

"Then I shall not keep you," Cobryn replied with a grin. "Have fun."

A moment later, as she was walking down the passage to her chambers, Gúthwyn's mind returned to what she had overheard her friend discussing. The idea of marrying was troubling; even more so to know that the advisors were already debating it. A thousand protests arose in her mind, though none of them were near the mark of what was truly bothering her. _I am too young—I am only twenty-one! And Éomer was just married to Lothíriel—should they not be satisfied with that 'political alliance'?_

While she tried to keep her mind on those concerns, her stomach was queasy by the time she opened the door into her room. Marrying someone would mean not marrying Borogor. It would mean sharing a bed with someone… someone who was certainly not Hammel or Haiweth. It would mean doing that which she had been trying to forget she had already experienced. It would mean being expected to have a child, perhaps several.

For a moment, the nausea overwhelmed her so much that she thought she would be sick. _Breathe!_ she yelled at herself, furious for being this weak. Was it so impossible for her to go a single day without the painful memories of her past? Why was she unable to hear the word 'marriage' without blanching? Why could she not just learn to bury what happened in Mordor?

Not wanting to dwell on these questions, she hastily went to her dresser and pulled out a pair of leggings and a tunic. Without a second thought she slipped out of her gown and into the new attire, trying not to wince when she caught sight of her back in the mirror. When she was ready, she went to her trunk and retrieved Framwine, taking a moment to admire the blade and sheathe alike.

Now prepared for what would hopefully be a good, long training session, Gúthwyn quickly tied her hair back and left the room. She went through the passage and was about to exit the great hall when the doors opened. Éomer and Lothíriel walked in, hand in hand and deep in conversation. They stopped when they saw her; Lothíriel's keen gaze lingered on her clothing.

"How was the tour?" Éomer inquired, smiling at her outfit.

"It was good," she answered. "Alphros was adorable to watch; Elphir told me he has never traveled outside of Dol Amroth before."

"You should have seen him on the road here," Lothíriel replied, grimacing. "After about an hour of his endless interrogations, Elphir decided that he would speak with our father, and kindly left me to deal with him!"

Éomer chuckled. "It cannot have been that bad," he murmured, grinning at his wife.

"I suppose not, if you do not mind having to answer questions such as 'Aunt Lothíriel, when are we going to get there?' and 'Aunt Lothíriel, where did the sea go?' and 'Aunt Lothíriel, why is your dress so big?' all day."

Roaring with laughter, Éomer managed, "My poor wife, you were absolutely tormented!" He leaned over and kissed her on the brow, then on the lips. "Does that make it any better?"

Deciding to leave the two before the situation grew awkward, Gúthwyn cleared her throat and said, "Have a good afternoon."

Lothíriel was blushing too furiously to respond, and Éomer seemed rather preoccupied, so without say anything further, Gúthwyn walked outside of Meduseld. A small part of her was jealous of Éomer: He had found, and was free to marry, the person that he loved. Whereas the one whom she would have agreed to spend her life with in a heartbeat was dead, never to be seen again by living man.

_Do not think about this,_ she told herself wearily. _It is over. It is done._

As she made her way down to the training grounds, she sought for something her mind could seize onto. At last, she decided on the subject of Tun. Around eight months had passed since she had seen him—in April, he would be returning to Edoras. She could hardly stand the waiting. It pained her to think of him toiling away, laboring to repair Helm's Deep with the cloud of Éomer's anger over his head. Why had she not made more of an effort to keep him from leaving?

A sudden shout caused her to glance up. She realized that she had neared the training grounds; the noise had been from a man attacking his partner. Her mood turned better, she sought for the figure of Elphir. Soon she found him, sparring with Erchirion while Amrothos and Alphros watched. The latter was wide-eyed, cheering his father on and gasping whenever someone made a particularly bold strike.

Gúthwyn made her way over to them, her gaze lingering on Elphir as she noted his skill. He would certainly be a worthy opponent, though she doubted that he could triumph over Éomer with much ease. But that was not to say he did not have skill: As the heir of Imrahil, he had been trained thoroughly, and this was an area that had been paid careful attention to by his instructors.

He had a natural grace and elegance—almost like Legolas, she found herself thinking, and shivered a little—and was quick on his feet. He was constantly darting in and out, going for the sly, sneaky stroke rather than the powerful, blunt one. His younger brother was no less an artist at this form of combat: Their blades were merely a whirl of dazzling metal, glinting in the dying sunlight.

At last, Elphir triumphed, landing a crafty jab on Erchirion's neck when the prince was not prepared. Alphros' cries of delight rang through the training grounds, so that numerous Rohirrim glanced over and smiled. The two nobles bowed to each other, and then turned to see Gúthwyn standing a little ways from their audience.

"Hello, my lady," Elphir said as Alphros ran over to him, demanding to be picked up. He obliged, spinning the boy around awhile before setting him back down.

Amrothos glanced casually over at her, and then stiffened. His evidently surprised gaze raked her body. Even though it was her outfit that he was staring at, she could not help but feel uncomfortable.

"You are fighting?" he asked incredulously, finally looking at Framwine.

"Yes," Gúthwyn replied firmly, meeting his eyes levelly.

"As a matter of fact," Elphir said, grinning at his youngest brother, "Gúthwyn has challenged me to a duel."

Amrothos suddenly became very interested in watching Gamling sparring Erkenbrand, though she had the impression that he was working hard to conceal a snigger. She felt a surge of irritation flow through her, and then subdued it. _He will decide for himself how worthy I am when we are done,_ she thought.

"Do you wish to warm up before we start?" Elphir asked then. She shook her head.

"I will be fine. Besides, I think Alphros may just burst with impatience if we do not begin soon."

Elphir looked over at his son, and when he saw the boy hopping excitedly up and down he laughed. "As you wish," he said.

The two of them moved to a more open space. As they did so, and were preparing to commence their duel, she saw Erkenbrand and Gamling pause what they were doing to watch. Gamling had a half-horrified expression on his face that would, no doubt, be mirrored on Éomer's own once he discovered that she had been fighting with his guest.

Elphir bowed courteously to her, and she returned the gesture. They readied their swords, hers gleaming with anticipation. For a moment, they circled each other, each searching for weaknesses in their opponents' guards. Yet when Gúthwyn spotted Elphir's, she did not act on it immediately, wanting him to remain unaware of it for as long as possible. Instead, she feinted to the opposite side, intending to draw him out.

The prince took the bait, and he lunged forward to ward off her attack and deliver an equally strong counterblow. From there, it was merely a whirlwind of swords. No matter how hard Elphir tried, he was unable to get through her guard. She had come close several times, though had not had any success in doing so. After about two minutes, neither of them had gained any ground. She decided to change that.

Without warning, she launched into a series of swift and powerful strikes, sending them in random directions so that he never knew for sure where they would be coming from. He began falling back, though he still managed to defend himself adequately. The look of surprise on his face was enough to make the adrenaline pulse faster through her veins. She pushed him back further.

At one point, their swords caught. Both of them used that time to regain their breath. She glanced over at Alphros to see him gaping at her, shocked that a woman could have the upper hand over his father. Likewise, Amrothos' thinly-veiled smirk was gone, replaced by astonishment.

"Shall I relent?" she whispered, looking up at Elphir. "I would not want to disappoint your son."

His breath was coming heavily. "I think it is your call," he said, panting a little. He was gazing at her with newfound respect. "Where did you learn to fight so well?"

Her heart twisted. "I have trained nearly every day for nine years," she replied, thinking of the duels in Isengard and the miserable practices in Mordor. "Necessity in the darkening times dictated that it had to be so."

"Then do what you will," Elphir responded, "for it seems I am in no position to hinder it."

They pulled away from each other then, and slowly but surely Gúthwyn began weakening her attacks. She let herself be pushed back, foot by foot, until they were nearly at the place where they had started. The men would see through such falsity immediately, but Alphros would not know the difference. When her sword met Elphir's, her motions were slower than before.

It was not long until Elphir found a way to get under her guard. The tip of his sword rested lightly on her stomach, and it was worth it when Alphros cheered happily. She bowed to the prince, and he to her; then he leaned close, and muttered, "If you desire, we shall fight again, outside of my son's presence. Then the duel will be fair."

A smile came to her face. "I am looking forward to it," she replied.

When they returned to Alphros, Amrothos, and Erchirion, the three of them gave their congratulations to Elphir and cordial nods to Gúthwyn. Amrothos' eyes were narrowed slightly at her.

"You won! You won!" Alphros chanted, tugging at his father's hand and dancing.

"Now, son," Elphir chastised him, "one does not brag about their good fortune. Remember that."

Alphros was quieted, though a gap-toothed grin still lit up his face. Gúthwyn smiled to herself and turned away, looking for someone else to fight. _Perhaps Gamling and Erkenbrand are done,_ she mused.

Once more, she did not notice Elphir's eyes on her.

* * *

At last, Gúthwyn sheathed Framwine. The blade shone mournfully as it slid back into its casing, and even though she had been practicing for nearly two hours she found herself wishing that she could have done so for longer. But the sky was dark, as it was winter and the sun did not show its face for a great span of time, and she had to go back inside and get ready for dinner. 

She glanced up to see if there was anyone she could walk back to Meduseld with and froze. Lebryn was walking by, his manner revealing none of the embarrassment that she would have expected to see in him. Yet a brilliant flush had dyed her cheeks, and she could hardly watch him for humiliation. To think that she had last seen that hand caressing a woman's breast...

A wave of nausea rolled over her at the same instant he happened to look in her direction. His eyes widened, and for a long moment they were both still. No one else was left on the training grounds.

"Gúthwyn," he at last said, and moved closer to her. She stiffened, taking a step back. There was another pause. For the first time in her memory, Lebryn was shifting awkwardly in front of her. "About last night..." he began roughly.

"Lebryn, how could you?" she whispered, struggling to hold back a wave of tears. "How could you be so careless?"

"No one else has seen us," Lebryn quickly said, though his head was hung. "Only you."

"Oh, I am so lucky!" she spat bitterly, surprising even herself with her tone. "Do you have any idea what Gamling would do to you if he found out? To say nothing of her father?"

"Are you going to tell him?" Lebryn wanted to know, tensing at the mention of Gamling.

"No," she replied, and he could not conceal the relief that passed over his face. "But I told Cobryn."

For a long time, he looked at her. "I suppose I deserve it," he said, though there was little remorse in his tone.

"Lebryn, you are a fool!" she hissed. "Someday, one of the women will become pregnant! Then what will you do?"

"I have already heard this from Cobryn," he retorted defensively.

"Then why are you not listening to him?" she demanded, feeling something prickling at her eyes.

To that, he had no answer. "Lebryn," she at length said softly, "you are only eighteen. Please, do not ruin your life at such a young age."

"I am not young," he answered irritably. "You may remember me only as a sullen boy, but we are no longer in Isengard. Life there was horrible, Gúthwyn, you of all people should know that! Do I not now deserve to fulfill my own desires? And what of you? Kissing Tun's cheek, the Valar know where else—"

She slapped him square across the face. Rage, a blinding, furious rage, swept through her. "How dare you?" she snarled as he flinched. "How dare you accuse me—accuse him—of such things? You are the one who was caught behind the stables!"

Her voice was now hitching, but she willed herself not to cry. "You disgust me!" she exclaimed, trembling in horror and loathing. "What has happened to you?"

"I am trying to forget Isengard!" he at last roared at her. Gúthwyn took a step away from him. "I am trying to forget being a slave! I am trying to forget _this_ stump of an arm!" He gestured angrily at it. "You condemn me for my lifestyle, but you have no idea what I have been through! At least you were able to escape! You do not know what it was like to see all your friends die because they were no longer needed! To see Onyveth being dragged out of the room by an Uruk, crying, and not being able to help the poor girl!" His voice caught in his throat for the briefest instant, and Gúthwyn saw to her shock that something was glistening in his right eye. He furiously brushed it away. "And now you even have a family! My family is _dead_, Gúthwyn! Why do you _think_ I am doing what I am doing?"

Gúthwyn was trapped in a horrified silence. She had never heard such bitterness in his voice. His dark eyes were black in their anger.

"So do not criticize me for what I am doing," Lebryn finished, his breathing ragged, "because you have _no idea._"

When she stood there, unable to say anything, he turned around and stormed away. He did not return to the Golden Hall; rather, he went down a narrow alley, and though she remained stationary for several minutes afterwards, he did not reappear. At last, she shook herself out of her trance, and stumbled in the general direction of Meduseld. After a few yards, she regained a steady walk, and was able to move up the street without attracting any suspicion from late-night tavern goers.

Her mind was buzzing. She had no idea that Lebryn felt so strongly about his past—she had mistakenly assumed him to not be affected at all by it. After all, he had the admiration of the women, and a respectable job, and until today she had not seen a breach in the rakish, confident air about him. Cobryn, with his more serious manner, had always seemed to be the one subdued from his experiences. Yet now she knew otherwise.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she almost did not notice when she arrived at the doors. But soon she had opened them, and walked inside the Golden Hall to see everyone sitting down for dinner.

"Sister, where have you been?" Éomer asked as she approached, his brow knitting in concern. Lothíriel looked at her, and arched an eyebrow in puzzlement.

Feeling the eyes of everyone—including Éowyn, Faramir, Aragorn, Arwen, Imrahil and his sons, the children, and Cobryn—on her, Gúthwyn flushed and said, "I was talking to Lebryn."

Both Éowyn and Cobryn glanced at each other, though the others did not seem to notice.

"Well, change quickly," Éomer said, smiling. "We have not started yet."

Gúthwyn nodded and hurried out of the throne room. As she went, she heard Lothíriel saying concernedly, "I hope she is feeling well—her face was rather pale…"

* * *

After dinner, the company steadily filtered away until only Gúthwyn, Éomer, and Lothíriel were left. Though the newlyweds included her in their conversation, she could not help feeling like a third wheel. This only reminded her that she had yet to talk to Éomer about whether or not he wished for her to remain at Meduseld. She felt plumes of nervousness rising within her at the thought of doing so, but she knew it was better to ask sooner than later. 

She seized her chance when Lothíriel expressed an interest in retiring for the night. Quickly, she said, "Brother, may I speak with you for a brief moment?"

Éomer glanced at her, and then looked at Lothíriel. "I will join you in a minute," he promised his wife, leaning over and kissing her on the brow.

Lothíriel nodded and left; Éomer and Gúthwyn remained sitting.

"What do you wish to talk about?" Éomer inquired curiously.

Gúthwyn swallowed, not quite sure how to put into words what she wanted to say. "I was wondering…" she at last began, and trailed off, biting her lip and trying to figure out how to phrase such a thing. Éomer watched her in puzzlement. "I was wondering if you still… if you still wanted me to…"

"Wanted you to what?" Éomer prodded her when she once more fumbled.

"I was wondering if you still wanted me to live with you, now that you are married to Lothíriel and are going to be raising a family." The words tumbled out of her mouth, so fast that for a few seconds Éomer was quiet as he digested them. Then his eyes widened.

Gúthwyn flushed. "It is just that… I do not want to be in the way, and you have another to care for now. And if Lothíriel bears you several children, Hammel and Haiweth will only be more mouths to feed, as will I."

A silence fell between them, in which she cast about for something else to say and he merely looked at her.

"Gúthwyn," Éomer at last said, and to her surprise he chuckled a little, "I have no desire to turn you away! The fact that I now have a wife does not mean that I will shun my baby sister!"

Though relief flooded Gúthwyn at this, she tried not to show it. "A-Are you sure?" she instead asked uncertainly.

"Of course I am," Éomer said, leaning forward and taking her small hand in his large one. "I would not dream of sending you from Meduseld! Did you think I cared so little for your company?"

"I just thought…"

"Gúthwyn," Éomer interjected firmly, "you and the children are more than welcome to stay here for as long as you would like to.

A long exhale escaped her, and she was so overcome with gratitude that she nearly felt faint. "Thank you so much," she murmured, pressing a hand over her heart. "Now I only wish that I had gone to you sooner, so I would not have spent so much time worrying!"

Now Éomer laughed in earnest, and she could not help but join him. "Nay, sister, I hope you will continue to be the light of the Golden Hall for many years to come."

"You exaggerate," she automatically said, but the broad grin on her face was only a testimony to his statement.

When Gúthwyn went to bed that night, she slept peacefully, such as she had not done for years.


	30. A Fair Duel

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirty:  
**Note on the name of Elphir's horse: It is actual Quenya, for 'sea horse.' I know the –occo ending doesn't sound like Quenya, but trust the language dictionaries at The Council of Elrond, it is. The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Thirty**

It was a rare moment of solitude on the training grounds. Gúthwyn was there by herself, parrying with an invisible opponent. The guards and other men who were so frequently her companions had all retired to their homes for lunch. She had not been hungry, and instead of facing a meal where the servants would raise a fuss about her not eating, she had opted to get in about half an hour's worth of extra practice.

Her blade was whirring through the air, making satisfying _swoosh_ noises as she twisted and turned to face new enemies. She was focused only on a gleaming Framwine, so intent on her activity that she would not have noticed if an Oliphaunt had gone running through the city. As it was, she was so absorbed in what she was doing that she did not hear the footsteps drawing closer to her, and it was only when she whirled around to slash at a shoulder of air that she saw Elphir watching her.

A flush spread across her face as she lowered her sword. Her heart was beating rapidly. "I am sorry," she apologized. "I did not see you."

He smiled, and she was suddenly struck by how handsome the action made him seem. _He is likely pursued relentlessly by the women at home,_ she thought in pitying amusement.

"Why were you not at lunch?" he now inquired. "Some of the servants expressed their concern."

"They always do," Gúthwyn replied, sighing a little, "whether I am at the table or not. But as for today, I was not very hungry, so I decided to come down here."

"That is not a very ladylike pursuit," he teased her. "My sister would be more than willing to lend you her sewing kit."

Gúthwyn snorted. "Please. My attempts at learning to sew are what the maids now use as rags!"

He burst out laughing at this. "Surely you jest."

She shook her head, a little embarrassed at her lack of proficiency in the art, but knowing that Elphir would not care.

"Even the greatest warrior must know how to mend his shirts, or stitch up a wound."

Gúthwyn grinned a little. "Luckily for me, there are others who have always been willing to help."

"I do not doubt that," Elphir said, and she blushed.

"Would you care to join me?" she inquired at length, and gestured towards the sword that hung at his side. "You seem to have come prepared."

"As a matter of fact, I was anticipating your presence," Elphir admitted. "I was not that hungry, either, and your brother mentioned that you would likely be here. I thought I might attempt to make amends for our unfair skirmish yesterday."

Flattered that he had remembered, Gúthwyn replied, "That is not necessary. I am glad Alphros was happy."

"And yet you have most humiliated me," Elphir answered, smiling ruefully, "for I must say that I grievously underestimated you. I thought your style would be similar to Lothíriel's: More for elegant fencing than the battlefield."

"So what you mean to say is, you learned nothing from the valor of my sister upon the Pelennor Fields?" Gúthwyn asked. "She who slew the Witch-king of Angmar?"

"It seems I have been an ignorant fool," he said easily, and she giggled. "I thought her an exception."

"It seems now I have much cause to teach you the error of your ways," Gúthwyn said with a smirk. "Shall we do battle, my lord?"

For a moment, he looked surprised at the boldness of her comment. Yet he quickly recovered, and agreed. As he withdrew his sword, she gave Framwine a few more swings and then settled herself into a comfortable stance. When Elphir stood before her, ready to duel, she gave a short bow and then waited.

Elphir lunged at her first, something she always preferred when fighting with someone, and from there on their blades were a blur of shining metal. Without the presence of Alphros—or, indeed, anyone—to influence the outcome, she was free to put forth all her skill. This she did, and within a minute she had begun driving him back. Wild, delighted fire was in her eyes. Excitement was pulsing rapidly through her veins.

She was so involved in the task at hand that she did not see the crowd beginning to gather around them. Nor did he. It was as if they were the only two in the world, and the patch of ground below them the only land there was to have. Now that she had made her skill with the sword clear, Elphir was putting forth all of his strength and cunning to turn the tables on her. Numerous times she was forced to sidestep a strike that might have resulted in her losing. Yet she viewed this as a challenge, and attacked it with a gleeful ferocity. She was determined to find a solution around his quick jabs and fancy footwork.

After a couple of minutes had passed—she hardly fatigued, him showing only the beginnings of perspiration—Gúthwyn started noticing how he occasionally shifted his grip after a particularly hard thrust. For a precious second, the hilt of the sword would separate from his clenched fist. If she was able to strike at the perfect moment, she might be able to unhand him.

She began anticipating when each change of grip would be, waiting until she could predict it with near perfect accuracy before she made her move. When at least ten of these occurrences had happened with her guessing them correctly, she smiled and went for the kill. The next time Elphir adjusted his grip, she was ready. Without warning she leaped at him, and sent such a strike that his sword was knocked clean out of his hands. His eyes did not even have time to widen in surprise before she had placed Framwine at his throat, lightly resting the tip on his flesh.

"Do you yield?" she asked.

Elphir was breathing heavily, but at her words he started. Yet there was nothing he could do against her. "Yield," he murmured.

At his words, Gúthwyn suddenly became aware of a great deal of noise surrounding them. Confused, she glanced up. Her cheeks turned bright red when she realized that nearly all of the guards had formed a semicircle around them. To make things even worse, someone must have gone and told her brother, for he was there, as well as what appeared to be the entire court of Dol Amroth. Rather than saving Elphir from embarrassment, she had humiliated him in front of his entire household.

He saw them, as well, and a mortified tinge spread across his face. "I am so sorry," she apologized, pressing a hand over her mouth. "I did not mean to—"

"Nay, I deserved it," he swiftly said. "We are even."

There was nothing left for them to do but approach Éomer and Imrahil, who were standing side by side. Éomer appeared to be highly affronted, and looked as if he were trying to apologize to the prince for his sister's conduct, but Imrahil was chuckling, and his eyes were sparkling in amusement. Lothíriel was nowhere in sight, but Éomund's daughter had a feeling that her shrewd gaze would be narrowed considerably if she could have seen their fight.

"Well, son," Imrahil said as Gúthwyn and Elphir drew closer to them, "I was under the impression that I had trained my heir more thoroughly! Perhaps Erchirion would be more suited for the job."

He then winked at Gúthwyn, and she could not help giggling.

"Yes, brother," Erchirion said with a smirk, "you are an embarrassment to Dol Amroth."

Elphir's face seemed as if it would remain permanently pink. His one saving grace was that Alphros was nowhere in sight.

"Gúthwyn," Éomer said exasperatedly, "could you not have refrained from such an activity?"

She smiled innocently at him. "I challenged Lord Elphir to a duel," she replied, and his eyes widened in horror.

"Your skill with a sword is most remarkable," Imrahil complimented her. A broad grin tugged relentlessly at her lips. "Maybe you should be teaching my son…"

"Good friend, please, do not encourage her," Éomer groaned.

In response, Imrahil merely chuckled. "I see no harm in her knowing how to defend herself," he said. "In my old age, I had already forgotten that the women in your country are more than a force to be reckoned with—and I must say, young Gúthwyn appears to be following in her sister's footsteps!"

Gúthwyn glowed at the praise, and shot a pointed look at her brother. He gave her a warning glare back.

"Congratulations, my lord Elphir," someone said then, and they turned to see Gamling walking towards them. A broad grin was on his face as he clapped the young prince on the shoulder. "You are the latest to fall to the indignity of being beaten by a younger woman."

Elphir flushed a little more, and Gúthwyn gave the captain a light shove. "You yourself have not faired any better," she muttered.

He held his hands up in mock surrender. "My limbs know that all too well," he replied, and Imrahil laughed.

"Now, Éomer, what are you worrying about?" the prince asked, turning to his friend. Gúthwyn smiled to see that her brother still looked upset about her antics—and more than a bit flustered.

Then his eyes darkened slightly, and he said, "Nothing, for I have confidence that next time, my dear sister will be more prudent in deciding whom to cast her challenges to."

Gamling snorted. "That is like telling a horse not to graze in a field of knee-high grass!"

"I did not mind," Elphir said, and smiled at Gúthwyn in a way that made her flush.

* * *

The sun was starting its downward descent as Gúthwyn opened the doors into the stables. A golden light streamed into the stalls, sparkling with flecks of dust and hay. She breathed in deeply, immediately soothed by the horses' scents. For a moment she merely stood there, looking around and reflecting on how lucky she was to be back in Rohan. Then an impatient snort from Heorot brought her to her senses.

"Hello, my friend," she said as she stepped into his stall. "How have you been?"

He whinnied softly, and then eagerly accepted the carrot she offered. Gúthwyn smiled, stroking his mane. Though as of late she had been busy with preparations for Éomer's wedding, she still found the time to go riding with him at least three afternoons a week. She always looked forward to these hours, as in them she found a peaceful solitude that she had rarely experienced in her life. It gave her a way to relax and think back on all that was happening—usually, her schedule was such a whirlwind of activity that she was hardly able to sort through events.

She began preparing Heorot for a ride, though as the sun would be setting soon it would not be a long one. Nor could she go very far without an escort: Éomer always preferred her to be within sight of the city walls, and she knew that if she strayed much further he would panic. She did not mind this restriction overmuch, as the majestic mountains surrounding her home were enough to keep her eyes occupied, but sometimes such caution was tedious.

With a soft sigh, Gúthwyn was about to lead Heorot out of the stall when the door opened. She started, not having expected anyone to be coming in at a time when dinner was so close at hand. To her slight surprise, Elphir walked in, humming a low tune and carrying his saddle. He did not notice her, for she was hidden in the shadows of Heorot's stall, but when she called out to him he glanced up and saw her.

"My lady," he said, his eyes widening as he drew closer to her and rested his arm on the stall door. "I did not expect you to be here."

She shrugged, smiling a little. "I let Haiweth go early from her lessons, so here I am."

"She must have been happy," Elphir commented, chuckling.

"Aye, that she was," Gúthwyn agreed. "Her interests have not leaned towards her studies."

There was a few seconds' pause, until Gúthwyn asked, "Have you come to visit your horse or go for a ride?"

"I was hoping to take Eärocco out upon the fields, though I am not sure how much time I would have to do so. Nor do I even know my way around that well," he said ruefully.

"You are more than welcome to accompany me," Gúthwyn offered, "but unfortunately my brother prefers me not to go beyond what can be seen from the Golden Hall, unless I am with an escort."

"Would I not count?" Elphir asked, grinning.

Gúthwyn's eyes lit up. She had not thought of that. "I suppose you are right," she said, trying to conceal her joy. "Once you have Eärocco ready, then we will go out."

He nodded, and went to go prepare his horse. To busy herself, Gúthwyn took a brush and did a quick groom of Heorot. "Just a few more minutes," she promised him in a whisper. "Then you will be free."

Once Elphir was done, he brought Eärocco out of his stall, and paused before Heorot's so that Gúthwyn could take the lead. She thanked him, and soon she had passed out of the stables. Here she mounted Heorot, and waited for Elphir to do the same. When both of them were seated, Elphir navigated his horse beside her own. "Let us depart," he said cheerfully.

Gúthwyn needed no further encouragement. Though she could not put Heorot into a full-out gallop, since there were still people in the streets, she was prepared to do so the instant she went through the gates. But in the meantime, she contented herself to amble down the main road, making light conversation with Elphir. He really was a most enjoyable companion—he was always polite and charming to her, though she suspected that many of her actions would have been frowned upon in his home.

"My lady," someone said, and she glanced over to see the guard Balman waving at her. She waved back, grinning, and he asked, "Where are you and the prince off to today?"

"We shall not go very far," Gúthwyn informed him, aware of what he was truly asking. "And we will likely be back within the hour."

He nodded, and with that disappeared into the watchtower. Gúthwyn could tell that, inside, he was climbing the stairs so that he would be able to see all that she was doing from above. Though this precaution irked her at times, she knew that he simply wanted to protect her—and had a good reason for doing so.

Two of the guards standing by the gates opened them for her and Elphir. After thanking them, she went outside onto the path that would lead her and the prince to the wide fields. No sooner had she put the barrows behind her—she cast a mournful glance in their direction, thinking of how her uncle and cousin now lay under them—than she spurred Heorot into a gallop, urging him to go as swift as he might. A cry of delight escaped her as the grass fell away beneath her, and she felt her hair flying out behind her.

For nearly a full minute she did not look back to see where Elphir was, but when the initial adrenaline rush receded she slowed Heorot and turned him around. Elphir, she saw, was approaching her at a brisk trot; a smile was on his face to see her reaction. "You manage that stallion well," he commented.

Gúthwyn beamed. "Heorot is a wonderful horse," she replied, stroking the animal's mane. "I have had him since I was a little girl."

Heorot tossed his head proudly and regarded Eärocco with cold eyes, as if to say that he and his master were the superiors.

"Would you like to go atop that hill?" Gúthwyn asked, gesturing towards a large mound that was about half a mile away. "From there, you can see all of Edoras, or look out to the lands beyond it."

Elphir agreed to this, and soon they were guiding their horses towards the knoll. Normally, Gúthwyn was discouraged from going farther than this; sometimes she obeyed, other times she did not. Yet with an esteemed prince of a powerful country at her side, she knew that old Balman would be far less given to worry if she strayed.

Once they had crested the hill, they paused, for a moment both lost in their own thoughts and silent. Gúthwyn absent-mindedly ran her fingers through Heorot's mane, contemplating her return to her home. Never, throughout all her dark years as a slave, had she imagined seeing her people again. It had been a terrible resignation, but one that she had to adapt to or else perish. Sometimes when she woke up in the afternoon, such relief and gratitude washed over her that she could hardly move for it. Three years ago, if anyone had told her that she would soon be living in happiness and bliss, she would have likely struck out at them in confusion and hatred.

Her musings were interrupted as Elphir said, "I am glad that our siblings are so in love with each other."

The remark puzzled her, and she glanced at him with raised eyebrows. "Why would they not be?" she asked.

"It is not uncommon for daughters of nobility to be sent into loveless marriages, all for the sake of a political alliance," Elphir answered with a sigh. "It had grieved me to think that Lothíriel was doomed to the same fate—yet then your brother became king."

"Surely your father would not do such a thing to his only daughter?" Gúthwyn questioned, aghast at the prospect.

"It did not look as if he had much other choice," Elphir said, shrugging. "War had weakened our people and our economy. Even now, neither are the way they once were. With the right match, Lothíriel's husband could provide us with money, and the promise of aid in case of attack."

"That is horrible!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, her eyes wide.

"Aye, she hated it," Elphir responded. "None of us liked the idea overmuch, though Amrothos did not help matters by teasing her about the seemingly endless suitors that requested her hand. More than once, she vowed never to marry."

"I cannot blame her," Gúthwyn said, thinking with a shudder of living out one's days in fear of being forced to accept an unwanted man's proposal.

"Nor can I. But your brother—he was one of the few men who actually cared about whether Lothíriel was interested in the marriage. He would have refused to go through with it, had she disliked him. I think that was what endeared my father to him. It certainly won my respect."

Gúthwyn smiled. "Indeed, it seemed to me that Éomer was needlessly cautious. He was quite mysterious, and would never tell me how the negotiations were for fear of jinxing them!"

Elphir chuckled. "Well, now all is said and done," he murmured. Then he looked at Gúthwyn. "Forgive me if I am being too forward," he said, "but what of you? Have you yet given thought to marriage?"

She sighed a little. Everyone seemed to be asking her this question lately.

"My apologies," Elphir quickly said, sensing her mood. "I should not have pried."

"It is all right," Gúthwyn answered quietly. "I suppose I shall have to get used to others asking me why I have not become a docile ornament on some husband's arm."

Elphir's eyes widened, and even she was a little surprised at her bitterness. "I am sorry," she said wearily. "Éowyn and Éomer have already spoken to me about this. Today, I overheard two of my brother's advisors discussing it. As if," she suddenly burst out, "they have nothing better to do with their time! Is one wedding not enough?"

The prince looked as if he regretted broaching the topic. "I did not know you felt so vehemently about this. I did not mean to upset you."

Her good mood now effectively dampened, Gúthwyn nevertheless hastened to reassure him that it was not his fault. "Besides," she added, trying to make amends for what must have seemed like an ungrateful complaint, "it is—or should be—no matter. I am only twenty-one."

"So is Lothíriel," Elphir reminded her.

"That is true," Gúthwyn allowed, "but she has been raised for marriage and the duties of running a household, has she not? I know next to nothing. When Éomer finds some unfortunate soul to vainly attempt to teach me the skills of being a lady, then I will start worrying."

He chuckled at her remarks, but then said softly, "Marriage is not all that bad."

Gúthwyn bit her lip, remembering that he had lost a wife. "I suppose it is not," she relented, and sought to change the subject. "Now, my lord, enough of this. Would you like to go further out onto the plains, or shall I race you back?"

"A race?" Elphir asked, casting a doubtful glance at her and then at the gates. "I have already lost to you once today."

Giggling, the thought of marriage swept completely out of her mind, Gúthwyn said, "Oh, it will not be that terrible!"

"Fine," he said, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Excellent," Gúthwyn replied, and with that she bolted off. As she spurred Heorot towards the gates, she could hear Elphir protesting behind her. Yet, aside from the broad grin adorning her face, she took no notice.

But for all her expertise with horses, and for all Heorot's stamina, slowly the prince was starting to catch up. She could hear Eärocco galloping from a short distance that was growing increasingly smaller. Heorot strived to retain the lead, and her brow knit when she realized that it had become more of a struggle. His breathing was coming harder than usual.

They were almost at the gates now. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eärocco's head appear, followed by a pair of hands grasping at the reins. Concerned for Heorot, who was now making strange wheezing noises, she started slowing down. It did not matter much: Though Elphir was able to pull up alongside her, they were so close to the gates that they ended up tying. Immediately, she hopped off Heorot to examine him.

"Is he all right?" Elphir inquired concernedly, steering Eärocco closer.

Heorot's breathing was returning to normal, and he was no longer winded. He looked at Gúthwyn with doleful eyes; she smiled.

"I think he is getting old," she said with a grin, though inside she felt a chill sweep over her.

"How many summers has he seen?" Elphir asked.

"Twenty-nine," Gúthwyn replied, now stroking Heorot with a small frown. It had never occurred to her that her horse was nearing the end of its life—at best, he likely had ten more years left. But during those ten years, his body would deteriorate, making him susceptible to disease and other troubles that plagued old horses. Many a Rider had she heard of who had given their mounts special herbs that would take their life gently and rid them of pain.

As if reading her mind, Heorot snorted, and tossed his head towards his saddle as if scoffing that he could ever be too weak to bear her. Gúthwyn smiled a little, her fears somewhat dissipated, and climbed back on top of him. "My apologies for the delay," she told Elphir.

"That is all right," he said. "I hope your horse is well."

In response, Gúthwyn nodded, and nudged Heorot forward. They entered the city, greeted with the usual hubbub of the busy streets. Balman was waiting for them just inside the gates; when she approached him, he commented, "I am afraid you were not up to your usual standard, my lady."

"Alas, I was not," Gúthwyn said. "But Lord Elphir is a most worthy opponent."

"That he is," Balman agreed, with a deferential bow to the prince.

Gúthwyn and Elphir continued on their way towards the stables, conversing easily about the affairs of the kingdom. She was not much aware about the politics her brother immersed himself in, but was able to give Elphir a relatively good account about the recent happenings in the Mark. This kept them occupied until they had arrived outside the stables, for he was very interested in her tidings and asked numerous questions.

When they came to a stop, Elphir dismounted first. Before she had time to follow suit, he reached up and offered his hand to her. Slightly flustered, she accepted it, unused to such a gesture. He must have noted the confused expression on her face, for as she slid off easily, he explained, "A habit."

"Well, thank you," Gúthwyn said, still a little embarrassed.

He lowered her hand, and gave a small bow.


	31. The Rhythm of the Hammer

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirty-One:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Thirty-One**

After dinner, Gúthwyn lay restlessly on her bed, her mind turning over all that Elphir had told her during their ride. She had quite forgotten it until she returned to the Golden Hall and saw Lothíriel; then, all at once, the memory of their conversation had rushed through her. It seemed that her brother had escaped a dreadful marriage such as Elphir had told her of—but what of herself?

She had never given much thought to it, but with two siblings in the royal family happily wedded, it was only natural that others would declare it her turn. Furthermore, Elphir had mentioned that the right match could provide economic aid. During the War, much of the realm's crops had been burned by savage Uruks that had swept across the land. King Elessar had granted Éomer a loan, and the Mark was well on its way to paying it back, but what if next year's harvest was not good? Her brother would be in need of money—would he use her as a means of getting it?

_Éomer would never do that,_ she told herself, yet still doubt assailed her. He had already mentioned the subject of marriage to her, and seemed incapable of comprehending that she did not wish to find a husband. Even Éowyn, who had correctly interpreted much of her anxiety, had still wanted her sister to become a wife. Not to mention the advisors...

A cold feeling settled into her stomach as she recalled the conversation between Cobryn and Aldor that she had overheard in the morning. _"…there is hope of a stronger political alliance with—"_ The older councilor had fallen silent then, as he had noticed her watching them, but he had gone far enough. She could not blame him for having the interests of the kingdom in mind, as that was his job, but what if he convinced Éomer to start searching for suitable husbands? What would she do then?

Gúthwyn's nausea grew, and more than ever she wanted reassurance that her fears would not come to pass. Sitting up, she got off of the bed and left her room. She did not stop to cover herself with a robe, for she had not even changed out of her riding dress. Instead she continued walking, down the passage and into the throne room, until she could see the faint outline of Cobryn's pallet.

He had not yet gone to sleep: He was leaning against one of the pillars, looking deep in thought. The only others awake in the hall were a few servants, moving around and cleaning the floors and tables. A few yards away, all of the guests were asleep, arranged as comfortably on the ground as they could be. Elphir was among them.

"Good evening," Cobryn sat as she approached him. He did not look the least bit surprised to see her; he had probably been watching her progress ever since she entered the room.

"Good evening," she replied, and gestured to the side of his pallet. "Do you mind if I sit?"

In response, he shifted over. Some of the servants glanced at her quizzically as she sat down next to her friend, though she paid them no heed. It was not proper for a lady to be sitting on the floor, especially so close to a man, but the importance of that paled in comparison to what she wanted to talk to Cobryn about.

He was waiting for her to speak. She rested her elbows on her knees and leaned forward. "Cobryn," she began, taking a deep breath. "I wanted to talk to you about… about what you and Aldor were…" Her voice faltered, but with the slight widening of his eyes she knew that he had understood.

"Ah," he said. "That."

Doubt flooded her when he did not elaborate. "Well?" she pressed him, a keen fear spiking sharp within her veins. "Have the advisors already started discussing the possibility of marriage for me?"

"Yes and no," was Cobryn's enigmatic response. She knit her brow.

"Please, Cobryn, do not speak in riddles. What is going on?"

"Some of the elder councilors—Aldor, and Aldhelm as well—are saying that the time is ripe to start making it known to the nobility that you are ready for marriage. They argue that, with a successful match—"

"My husband could provide us with money, and the promise of aid in case of attack," Gúthwyn filled in wearily, repeating Elphir's words from what now seemed like years ago.

Cobryn nodded, and fell silent.

"What of my brother?" Gúthwyn wanted to know. "Does he agree with them?"

"Well," Cobryn replied delicately, "this is where things start to turn grey. Your brother wants to see you become a wife, but he refuses to send you into a loveless marriage, and he certainly has to approve of the man beforehand. While he knows the logic of using you to, ah, advance our economic and political situation, he does not like the idea at all."

Gúthwyn felt shivers coming over her that had nothing to do with the winter chill. "And what about you?" she asked softly. "What words have fallen from your lips in these councils?"

"I have informed the others that you have little desire to marry," Cobryn said, his eyes meeting hers, "but other than that, I have remained silent. We have some time before they begin contemplating your situation in earnest: Éomer has, after all, just wedded Lothíriel."

A sigh of relief escaped her. "So no names have been suggested?" she inquired, her tone now curious. If the councilors insisted upon discussing whom her future husband would be, though she had no intention of following through with their plans, she might as well know whose courtship she would be forced to endure.

Cobryn shook his head. "None," he said. "However, Aldor suggested that profit might be found from strengthening our alliance with Dol Amroth."

"You mean, wedding one of the princes?" she asked. Her mind immediately leapt to Elphir, trying to imagine what it would be like to be his wife. _I am not marrying anyone,_ she reminded herself the next instant.

When she glanced back up, she realized from the smirk on Cobryn's face that he knew exactly whom she was thinking about. For some reason, a flush spread over her cheeks. "What?"

"Not what," Cobryn corrected her with a grin, "but who."

With a shrewd friend like Cobryn, it was near impossible to keep anything hidden, but she tried. "I do not understand."

He snorted. "You do not?"

She tried to hold his gaze evenly, but she had never won a staring contest in her life and was unable to start now. Before long, she had looked away and blushed again.

"So," Cobryn said, settling himself against the pillar and folding his arms across his chest, "at last we come to something I have been meaning to ask you about since Lothíriel's coronation."

"And what would that be?" Gúthwyn questioned, lowering her voice in the off chance that someone stirred. The servants had filtered away, leaving them the only ones awake, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

He, too, spoke quietly. "Is it just me, or have you been spending lots of time with a certain prince lately?"

"No more than I would with you, if your duties permitted it, or Tun," she argued defensively.

Cobryn raised an eyebrow. "You went riding with him today, did you not?"

Gúthwyn's mouth opened; then she closed it, and opened again. "Do my people really spread gossip that fast?"

Chuckling a little, Cobryn replied, "It was Hammel who told me."

"I swear, that boy has eyes in the back of his head," she murmured fondly.

"That would be near the mark," Cobryn said amusedly. "But that is not the point. For, in addition to that, you have also been seen dueling with him, showing him around the city, walking along the streets with him, and dancing with him. I am curious."

"There is nothing to be curious about," Gúthwyn informed him. "I will not deny that he is a wonderful companion—again, as are you and Tun."

"So it is merely coincidence that you seem to be spending all of your waking hours with him?" Cobryn inquired disbelievingly.

Gúthwyn frowned. Now that she thought of it, she had been with Elphir for nearly the entire day. It had certainly flown by swiftly. "I suppose it is," she said.

He regarded her for a moment. "You are clueless," he at last muttered, though there was a smile on his face.

Cuffing him on the shoulder, she retorted, "Thank you so much, my good friend. How might I be clueless?"

"Because, clearly, if you are not seeking him out, then he must be seeking you out. Has no one ever mentioned to you that the council of Dol Amroth is advising Elphir to find a wife?"

"But Alphros' mother just recently died!" Gúthwyn exclaimed in a whisper, aghast.

"That was four years ago," Cobryn reminded her, "and as Imrahil is nearing his older days, these things have to be taken into consideration."

She gaped at him. "You are horrible!"

He smiled grimly. "Politics are horrible. Mind over heart, logic over love."

"Then why do you immerse yourself in them?" she asked.

"It is one of the few ways in which I can make myself useful," he responded. "I cannot act as a guard, and Éomer is in no need of laborers. Therefore, I make do with what I can."

Gúthwyn was silent, mulling this over. At length, she thought back to his earlier words. "Are you implying, then, that Elphir might be considering—"

He hushed her then, holding his hand up to stop her. There had been a movement from one of the pallets. Though it was soon revealed to be Erchirion, turning over in his sleep, they lowered their voices to half-whispers. "Are you saying that he might be considering me?" Gúthwyn finished, drawing her knees close to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

"I would say that you are not out of the question," Cobryn answered vaguely. "After all, you are royalty—if by a mild connection—and you are also young. Nor do you detest each other; quite the opposite, in fact. Finally, now that Éomer has wedded Lothíriel, there is already friendship enough between our peoples to make such an arrangement appropriate."

Again, Gúthwyn did not say anything. A small part of her was flattered, for if Cobryn's guesses were right—and they usually were—she had attracted the attention of a wonderful, kind man. There were certainly worse things in the world. Yet while it was true that she would not object to Elphir as strongly as she would to, say, Gríma (her fists clenched, and she shook a little), she did not want to marry at all. She wanted Borogor.

_But you cannot have him,_ she told herself sternly, and tried to concentrate on what Cobryn was now saying.

"…for awhile: What do _you_ think of marriage?"

The question surprised her, and nearly a minute passed before she spoke. "I have already told you that I do not want a husband."

"I know," Cobryn said, "and that is what I passed on to Éomer's advisors, but any indignant woman will say that and find themselves managing a household quite happily afterwards. Look at your sister. Have you not mentioned to me that for years, she cared about men only in terms of how strong a warrior they were?"

"I still do not understand how she fell in love with Faramir," Gúthwyn replied, a bitter tone in her voice, "but yes, I have."

Cobryn sighed, and leaned closer. "Gúthwyn, I know why you do not want to marry, and I hope you do not think me an insensitive, meddling politician. I have no desire to make you do something you do not wish to, and I know what it is like to lose someone close to your heart. But is there any chance that you might be persuaded to look for love again? Especially if there are others willing to give it?"

At his words, Gúthwyn felt a lump coming to her throat. She did not blame Cobryn for speaking thus to her: He honestly did care for her well being, and the concerns of her brother's kingdom were second to her happiness in his eyes. But she was also aware that Éomer was determined not to see her a spinster—and that his power far outstripped that of her friend's.

"I will look for it," she said dully, "if the council wills it. Or rather, I shall try to see the good in whatever arrangement they think of. But I will not search on my own, and I—" She paused, for the first time realizing that there was only a slim chance of her escaping her brother's wishes. If he wanted her to be married, what choice would she have but to obey? Yet she was terrified… She swallowed, and said, "I have enough to be afraid of."

Cobryn looked at her pityingly, and for the first time she did not loathe the familiar expression. Instead, she leaned against his shoulder, struggling to keep the fresh tears from spilling over.

"I understand," he said, and no further words passed between them.

* * *

A week after King Éomer's marriage, his guests took their leave and departed for their homes. Prince Imrahil bid farewell to his child, and Lothíriel watched her father ride out of the city with a gloomy heart. For neither of them knew when they would next see each other, and it pained Imrahil greatly to surrender his only daughter to the heart of another. Yet it had to be done, though that lessened the grievance only a little. 

As for Gúthwyn, her own goodbyes were marked with no less sorrow. Éowyn's departure had had the greatest effect on her, for she missed her sister dearly and could not say when she would see her once more. Their conversation was again reduced to letters, ones that took weeks to travel from the forest of Ithilien to the plains of Rohan. Faramir she was less saddened to see go, as they had only spoken once or twice during his stay, but that did not make the burden easier to bear.

Aragorn and Arwen had also exchanged farewells with her, the former promising to write as soon as the negotiations with the slaves and army of Mordor had finished. To this she looked anxiously forward to, but of more note was Elphir's departure. He had expressed hope in continuing their written correspondence, to which she had eagerly agreed. Furthermore, in another surprising gesture, he had bowed and kissed her hand in the manner of chivalrous nobles. It had given Amrothos much amusement, for he immediately elbowed his brother out of the way and made a great show of doing the same, his motions as obnoxious and overdone as possible. Their attention had embarrassed her, even more so when Lothíriel had glanced over with cold eyes, though she could not help but feel pleased to think that Elphir regarded her so highly.

Yet those were not the only farewells that were given. Within a few days after the Gondorian nobility had taken their leave, Erkenbrand and his men saddled their horses to prepare for the journey back to Helm's Deep. As Gúthwyn stood on the main street, two cloaks wrapped tightly around herself against the cold, she felt a small surge of excitement run through her. Tun would be returning soon—she only had to wait a few more months, and then he would be with her again.

Near her, Éomer and Lothíriel were talking to Erkenbrand. Still waiting for her turn, she strained an ear to listen to what they were saying.

"It has been a pleasure seeing you again, my friend," Éomer spoke, shaking the Marshal's hand. "I am looking forward to your return."

"As am I," Erkenbrand agreed, nodding. "I shall let you know when the work has finished. In the mean time, good luck."

Almost instinctively, Éomer's other hand took Lothíriel's and squeezed it gently. "Thank you," he said.

Erkenbrand smiled, and bowed. "Farewell, my lord. My lady," he added to Lothíriel, bowing even deeper.

"May the road be safe and your fortune good," Lothíriel replied eloquently.

After giving his thanks, Erkenbrand went over a few feet to stand before Gúthwyn. "Farewell, my lady," he said, grinning. "It has been a pleasure to see you again."

"It has been wonderful to see you, also," Gúthwyn replied happily. "When you arrive at Helm's Deep, will you do me a favor?"

From the look he gave her, she guessed that he knew all too well what the favor would involve, but he did not frown. "What may I do for you, my lady?"

Gúthwyn smiled. "Give my regards to the men, and then tell Tun that I miss him greatly and am anxiously awaiting the moment when I can see him again."

He nodded. "I will relay the message," he promised. "My nephew will be glad to hear it."

"Thank you," she said, and gave a small curtsy. "Farewell, my lord."

After he had thanked her, she went to stand beside Éomer and Lothíriel. "April cannot come soon enough," she murmured.

Éomer heard her, and glanced over at her with shrewd eyes. "It will get here when it does," he said, seeming to be struggling with two instincts: being disapproving of the men his younger sister consorted with, and not wishing to argue with her.

She was about to answer him when Lothíriel's eyes met hers, and for reasons unbeknownst to her fell silent. The topic of Tun was not mentioned again.

"Sister," Éomer said then. "May I speak with you for a moment?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn replied, her thoughts still with Tun.

They excused themselves from Lothíriel and walked a few paces away. "Now," Éomer began, lowering his voice and leaning closer to her, "What is this I hear about you and Cobryn being caught together in the Golden Hall?"

Gúthwyn blinked at him, nonplussed. "What?"

Then realization swept over her, and she remembered Elflede seeing the two of them behind the pillar and misinterpreting it. "Oh!" A faint blush spread over her cheeks. "No, Éomer, it was nothing of the sort."

He eyed her doubtfully. "Then why were the two of you behind that pillar?"

Her face colored. "I was thinking about Tun," she said softly, "and I wanted to be out of the way. Cobryn found me, but I did not see him coming; I jumped backwards when he said my name and knocked over some spears. Elflede came over just as he was steadying me."

Éomer, who had noticeably tensed at the mention of Tun, now sighed in relief. "Good," he said. "I like Cobryn. I was not looking forward to yelling at him."

She rolled her eyes. "You would yell at him for loving me?"

"For taking advantage of you," Éomer said darkly.

Gúthwyn shivered, and did not respond.

* * *

_One thousand and one. One thousand and two. One thousand and three. One thousand and four._

Tun rhythmically counted out the strokes of his hammer, concentrating furiously on completing his task. For nearly five days he had been hewing the stone that would repair the last of the Deeping Wall. It was a difficult job, as he had nowhere near the expertise of the Dwarves working alongside him, but he was determined to do it. With the way his thoughts had been running lately, hard and taxing labor seemed to be the only thing keeping him from going insane.

_One thousand and eleven. One thousand and twelve. One thousand and thirteen._

Angrily he pounded at the stone, smiling grimly when a large chunk of it fell off. He paused briefly to readjust his grip on the hammer, which was steadily becoming damp from his clenched palms. Sweat was running in rivulets down his body, staining the old tunic he was wearing and creating an uncomfortable, prickling sensation on his forehead.

"Isn't it about time you took a break, lad?" a deep voice said to his right. Tun glanced over and saw the leader of the Dwarves watching him, having momentarily abandoned his own—far superior—stonework.

"Nay, Gimli," he replied, wiping his brow. "It is only noon."

"When was the last time you had a proper meal?" Gimli asked, eyeing him critically. "I hardly ever see you doing anything other than working."

Tun squinted, trying to remember. All of the days were blending together, one endless expanse of time to the other.

At length, he gave up. "I do not know," he said shortly, and took the hammer to the rock again.

_One thousand and fourteen. One thousand and fifteen. One thousand and sixteen._

With a particularly ferocious strike, he accidentally cut off about three times more rock than he intended to, rending great cracks in the stone as he did so. Growling in frustration, he picked up the largest fragment and chucked it over the Deeping Wall. It went about fifty feet before shattering on the desolated stretch of land in front of the mountains. No one was there: the other men had taken their lunch break, and were out of harm's way.

When he turned back to go get another slab of stone that was not ruined, a hand was thrust into his chest, stopping him. "You need a break," Gimli said stoutly, lowering his arm. "Go eat something, boy."

Even angrier at being called "boy" by someone who was nearly two feet shorter than him, Tun attempted to push his way past the Dwarf, but just as quickly Gimli shifted so that his progress was deterred.

Willing himself not to lash out, Tun said through gritted teeth, "Excuse me."

"Whatever is going on in your mind right now, this is not going to solve it," Gimli replied, folding his arms across his chest. "Let my people take care of this. Your uncle will not be pleased if he finds out I let you work yourself to death in his absence."

Tun swore under his breath. "Forget about my uncle," he snarled. Gimli's remark had struck the very nerve in him that he had been trying to forget about. Right now, Erkenbrand was on his way back from Edoras, where he had spent the week in celebration of King Éomer's marriage to Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. Where he had spent the week in the presence of the reason why he was here: Gúthwyn.

He nearly groaned out loud. _You are not supposed to be thinking of her!_ he reprimanded himself.

Yet how could he keep his mind off of his lady, when she was in his dreams every night and always hovering on the edge of his waking thought? He had tasted her lips so many times now that it was as if she had actually kissed him—in reality, not in his imagination. No, in his imagination they had enjoyed picnics together and moonlit walks and every sort of romantic scenario he could envision; they had married and fallen asleep in each other's arms and watched over a nameless child. Whereas in reality…

"Piece of silver for your thoughts."

With a flush of guilt, he was torn from his musings to see Gimli looking at him. "They are not worth it," he said wearily, suddenly tired. A heavy sigh escaped him.

"They must be, for all the consideration you're giving them," the Dwarf responded matter-of-factly. "I was not born yesterday, lad. You came here for a reason, and that reason is what's making you destroy good blocks of stone."

"Sorry," Tun muttered, remembering that it had been the Dwarves responsible for quarrying most of the rock.

Gimli waved away his apology and leaned against the parapet. His head was barely an inch above the wall. "So, what is it that is troubling you?"

For a moment, Tun hesitated, wondering whether to confide in the Dwarf. The two of them had formed a companionship over the past few months, though neither of them had actually spoken that much to each other. Instead, they usually worked side by side in silence, Gimli preoccupied with carving the perfect block and Tun preoccupied with trying to forget Gúthwyn for more than five seconds.

At length, the need to siphon off some of his problems won out. "Gúthwyn," he said.

If Gimli was surprised, he did not show it. "Ah," he instead murmured. "The lady Gúthwyn."

Tun was trying to figure out what to say next when Gimli decided for him. "She still has not returned your feelings?"

His eyes widened in surprise, and then in indignation. "Did my uncle tell you this?" he demanded.

Gimli shrugged. "It was not that difficult to figure out. Again, I was not born yesterday."

_Great,_ Tun fumed to himself, _now even the Dwarves know about it. Is there anyone that does not?_

_Gúthwyn,_ his mind immediately answered, and he deflated—it was true. She thought that his actions were only that of close friendship. She had no idea the fireworks she was setting off inside him every time she touched his hand or kissed his cheek. She had no idea how the mere sight of her forced him to draw upon all his self-restraint so that he did not take her into his arms and press his lips against hers; nor was she even aware of how he could never keep his eyes off of her when they were together. What was he doing wrong?

As if in response to his unspoken inquiry, Gimli said then, "It is easier said than done, but if you truly love her, then tell her. I have a feeling the lass could do with more happiness in her life."

Tun looked at the Dwarf, considering. Would he really be able to tell his lady that he was in love with her? Or would she think him undesirable, and turn away in disgust?

"What do I have to lose?" he wondered aloud.

Gimli grinned. "That's the spirit!"

Before Tun's tentative resolve could be swayed with images of blackened eyes, missing body parts, and Éomer's furious face, he heard the distant sound of whinnying horses. Both he and Gimli glanced over to see a small escort of men making their way into the Deeping-coomb. Tun's heart leapt: It was Erkenbrand, returning from Edoras… and likely to have tidings of Gúthwyn.

Quickly, he turned and strode down the Deeping Wall, followed at a slower pace by Gimli. As he entered the Hornburg, he could hear guards shouting for the gates to be opened, and the scurrying of feet as men tried to complete their tasks before Lord Erkenbrand set foot in the tower. It only took him a few minutes to weave his way through the fortress until he was waiting impatiently within the inner court. There was no reason to go any further: the stables were close by, and his uncle would dismount here to hand his horse to a young servant.

After a minute that seemed like eternity, Erkenbrand and his men came into view. A throng of workers gathered around them, clamoring to know what the new queen was like and if her beauty was truly as it had been rumored. Tun watched as Erkenbrand got down from his horse and handed the reins to a stableboy, then glanced throughout the court. When his eyes fell on his nephew, he nodded, and made his way over.

"Welcome back, uncle," Tun said, smiling.

"It is good to see you again," Erkenbrand replied, and embraced him briefly before saying, "You will be pleased to hear that Rohan is heading for better times, now that Lothíriel is our queen."

"I take it she and Éomer are happy with each other, then?" Tun inquired.

"Very much so," Erkenbrand said. "He could hardly believe his luck; she blushed redder than his armor whenever he so much as held her hand."

"That is good to hear," Tun agreed, and waited for his uncle to mention Gúthwyn.

Yet Erkenbrand merely looked around and asked, "How are things around here? Is the Deeping Wall ready for repair?"

"Nearly," Tun said. "There are a few more blocks that need to be hewn, and then the men can start working on it."

"Excellent," Erkenbrand replied. "Where is Gimli?"

Repressing a sigh, Tun pointed to where the Dwarf was standing and talking to some of his kinsmen. Erkenbrand thanked him and left; in seconds, he was deep in conversation with Gimli about the stonework. Tun stood there, determined not to let his uncle out of his sight before he could answer his questions about Gúthwyn. His mind became alive with thoughts of how beautiful she was, of how her hair spun out behind her when she twirled beneath his arm, of how the room seemed a thousand times brighter whenever she smiled. Words could not describe how foolishly, helplessly, he was in love with her.

After what felt like years, Erkenbrand and Gimli went their separate ways. Swiftly, Tun came to stand at his uncle's side. From the look he received, Erkenbrand was keenly aware of what was the source of his haste, but he did not say anything.

"Well?" Tun eventually prompted him.

"Well what?" Erkenbrand asked, becoming interested in a fly buzzing around one of the horses.

"Gúthwyn," Tun said, lowering his voice. "What of her? How is she? How are the children? Has she—"

Erkenbrand sighed, cutting him off. "Here, let us take a walk," he muttered.

Worry coming over him at his uncle's tone, Tun quickly nodded. They left the inner court, going through several passages before they came on a long stair that made its way from the fortress all the way down into the gorge behind the Deeping Wall. It was here that the last of the Elves had fallen nearly two years ago, defending a people and a land not their own. Yet Tun was not thinking of them now.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Erkenbrand beat him to it. "She is fine," the Marshal said. "The children are both doing excellent, though I heard from Elfhelm that Hammel has been bullied a few times—the boys think him odd because he likes to read, instead of wrestle."

Tun felt a small wave of pity wash over him for Hammel, but then he thought back on the days when he had fought with Gúthwyn, and immediately the child's plight was pushed out of the foreground of his mind. "And?" he pressed Erkenbrand, when his uncle appeared to have fallen silent.

Erkenbrand regarded him for a moment. "I will not deny that she was most upset when you were nowhere to be found," he said.

Hope—a small, delicate strand of hope—threaded its way into Tun's heart.

"And she gave me a message that I was to pass onto you. She said that she misses you greatly, and is anxiously awaiting the moment when she can see you again."

Tun's eyes widened, and the next instant he was struggling to keep himself from grinning like an idiot. If Gúthwyn had any inkling of how much he missed her, as well… He had wanted so desperately to go andvisit her, when news of Éomer's impending marriage had arrived, but he had promised himself that he would go an entire year without seeing her. In fathoms-deep folly, he had thought it would be enough to rid himself of his love for her, but that notion had failed miserably. If anything, he was now more attracted to her than ever before.

As if detecting his thoughts, which were likely written openly across his face anyway, Erkenbrand asked quietly, "You are still in love with her?"

"I tried to forget her," Tun replied despairingly. "But now I am lucky if I can go for two minutes without thinking about her! Erkenbrand, it is useless. I even dream about her at night!"

"April is only a few months away," Erkenbrand reminded him.

"Yes," Tun said unhappily, gazing out across the bleak fields.

_More like a few _years_ away._


	32. On the Road Again

**A/N:** Sorry for not updating so long! I left for vacation on Monday, but when I tried to update two chapters that morning the site wouldn't let me, so I had to go for almost an entire week without posting new chapters. Anyhoo, I'm posting two right now, and I might have another one coming up in the very near future. Enjoy!

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirty-Two:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

Gúthwyn marked a gradual change in Éomer's household with the arrival of his Lothíriel. It was subtle, but once she began to realize it the differences were obvious. With an aloof queen now overseeing their lives, the servants became more uptight, less prone to the chatter that Gúthwyn had grown used to—and liked—about them. The weather was cold outside, but at times the chill even seemed to be seeping inside.

That was not to say that Lothíriel did not attempt to make friends, nor that she was even without success. But the fact remained that most of the people did not understand the Common Tongue, and were unable to converse with her. Éomer taught her when he could, and hired a tutor to fill in when he was too busy, but the language of the Eorlingas was harsher than Sindarin and Westron, and the queen struggled with it. Even when she mastered some of the simple phrases, her accent made her stand out from the others.

Gúthwyn pitied her, hardly able to imagine what it was like to be the ruler of a people who could not even understand her, and offered to help, but the suggestion had been declined politely. Unfortunately, she still could not shake off the impression that the queen looked down on her. Lothíriel frequently conversed with her servant, Nethiel, and of course Éomer; however, she only spoke to Gúthwyn once or twice a day, and usually rather stiffly.

At first, Gúthwyn attributed it to mere awkwardness. Lothíriel was, after all, becoming used to a household that was far more open in displaying their emotions than her own in Dol Amroth—while Gúthwyn was inclined to hug Éomer as she bid him goodnight, the queen's face still turned red if her husband so much as kissed her on the cheek. And as Gúthwyn slept until noon, and then went to the training grounds for several hours, that did not leave much time left to get to know her brother's wife.

But three months later, with April approaching on the horizon, Gúthwyn could safely say that she had gotten no closer to Lothíriel. Most of the queen's time was spent either in her chambers or attending Éomer's councils. She had a devout interest in politics that Éomund's daughter could not understand in the least, yet knew that it was the marking of a good ruler. If not in either of those places, she could usually be found sewing or stitching with a small circle of women. Her skills in those areas were extraordinary, far beyond anything Gúthwyn could ever hope to achieve.

Perhaps it was this comparison between the two women that left Gúthwyn feeling the inferior. After all, Lothíriel surpassed her in beauty, dancing, etiquette, sewing, conversation, and just about every single talent that a lady was supposed to have. Yet she could not help but feel that this was not entirely the case. For one thing, Lothíriel did not seem to know what to make of the children. Hammel and Haiweth were always courteous to her, but Hammel was strangely cold around the queen, and Haiweth's affectionate manners went unreturned.

However, for all of this—which may very well have been figments of Gúthwyn's imagination, for Lothíriel was sometimes quite friendly to her—Gúthwyn was more than happy to note that Éomer was as helplessly in love with his queen as he had been on their wedding, and that his feelings were not unrequited. Whenever he had time off from his duties, he could be found walking with his wife, teaching her the language of his people, or showing her the finer aspects of horseback riding in the fields. He often invited Gúthwyn to accompany them, as he desired for his sister and his wife to become excellent acquaintances, and occasionally she took him up on his offer. When she did, it was clear to her that Lothíriel's feelings for her brother were genuine, and vice versa.

But while she and Lothíriel needed more time to develop their relationship, Gúthwyn was content in knowing that Éomer was pleased with his wife. The rest of the people revered her as well; it was rare that she could walk down the street without someone falling to their knees in awe. This greatly amused Gúthwyn and Éomer, who often joked amongst themselves about the matter.

Yet with the coming of April brought something else to Gúthwyn's mind that distracted her entirely from the queen and her enigmatic mood: Tun's imminent return to Edoras. For days, she was unable to think of anything other than seeing her champion once more. Her steps were lightened, and she often found herself humming merrily at the prospect of reuniting with him.

Éomer himself touched upon the subject one night, and when that conversation was finished Gúthwyn felt happier than she had been in a long time. She, Éomer, and Lothíriel were talking together late at night, having just finished their dinner. The children were already in bed, and Gúthwyn was preparing to join them when Éomer cleared his throat and announced, "I will be traveling to Helm's Deep soon."

Both Gúthwyn and Lothíriel's eyes widened at this. "How come?" the former blurted out.

Éomer glanced at her. "As you know, Erkenbrand will be returning in less than a month, and I am going to see the complete result. If any last minute changes need to be made, I will be able to tell him so. Furthermore, I also desire to converse with Gimli."

The Dwarf had been working with his people inside the Caves of Aglarond for some months now. He had also helped to fortify the entrance so that, in the future, none would be able to force their way through the doors to the Hornburg. Gúthwyn had already sent him a letter to inquire innocently about how his trip with Legolas had been; she had only received a vague reply about Fangorn, though the response had gone into great detail about the beauty of the Glittering Caves.

At that moment, however, there were more important things on Gúthwyn's mind than the Dwarf. She was about to voice them when Lothíriel spoke up.

"Shall I remain here, husband, and see to the concerns of the household?"

Éomer hesitated. "That is what is probably the best course of action," he confessed, "though I would certainly not mind if you came along with me." Again, his eyes darted to Gúthwyn.

"How long are you planning on being at the fortress?" Lothíriel inquired.

"Only a week," Éomer was swift to say. "I do not have much desire to be away from home overlong."

Lothíriel smiled. "Then in that case, I shall await your return in the Golden Hall."

Éomer took her hand. "Thank you, my lady wife. I know I can count on you—Meduseld will likely be in better shape when I come back than it was when I left it!"

"Brother," Gúthwyn began, bouncing her leg up and down in anticipation, "may I go with you?"

Lothíriel raised her eyebrows. "I had hoped that we might strengthen our friendship in the time of Éomer's absence."

"I think Lothíriel is right," Éomer said immediately. When Gúthwyn's mouth opened slightly, he added in an undertone, "Sister, you will see him in a few weeks."

"I cannot stand the waiting!" she cried. Lothíriel narrowed her eyes, looking confused. "Besides, you were willing to take Lothíriel with you, though I am not nearly as important to the management of Meduseld as she is. Surely I would merit the same invitation?"

Éomer sighed. "On any other occasion, I would have been glad to take you," he said. "But I do not think it, ah… prudent for you to travel so far to see him."  
Gúthwyn scoffed. "It is but a few days' journey! And he is my champion—why would I not see him, if I had the chance?"

"Your champion?" Lothíriel asked, glancing at her strangely. "Who is this that you speak of?"

Gúthwyn's eyes lit up. "His name is Tun," she informed the queen eagerly. "He is a wonderful man, and an excellent friend of mine. You will love him. He is courteous and kind, and he does his work diligently."

"How did he come to be your champion, might I ask?" Lothíriel questioned.

Here Gúthwyn faltered, looking at Éomer. She was not sure how much his wife knew of her past, or if she was even aware that she had disappeared from her land for over seven years.

After a few seconds' pause, Éomer said uncomfortably, "They had been close friends for a long time. Before my uncle led us to Helm's Deep, he swore to protect her."

Lothíriel's eyes sparkled. "How romantic," she mused.

Gúthwyn flushed. "It is nothing like that," she hastened to reassure the queen. Éomer's face was suddenly stony. "He is the sweetest man I know, and his intentions have always been honest. Am I not right, Éomer?"

She shot a quick look at her brother, raising her eyebrows slightly in an unspoken challenge.

Éomer appeared as if he had swallowed something unpleasant. "That is not the point," he at last said. "The point is, you will see Tun before the month is out. A few weeks' worth of waiting cannot change that."

Gúthwyn's expression turned pained. "Éomer, please! If you do not think it appropriate for the reason of my travels to be Tun, then what of Gimli? I have not seen him since Éowyn's wedding, and he still owes me an account of his people's deeds. Surely you cannot expect me to miss out on an opportunity to see him again?"

He was weakening; she could sense it. "Sister, there is little I can deny you," he admitted grudgingly.

"Then why are you even bothering to try?" she asked delicately, smiling at him triumphantly.

Once again, Éomer sighed. "On one condition," he said at length.

"Anything," Gúthwyn vowed, disliking the fact that she had to lower herself to a compromise, but willing to accept it if that meant seeing her champion again.

He suddenly grinned. "No sparring matches!"

Gúthwyn stiffened in surprise, and then started laughing. "Agreed," she said happily, glad that she had swayed her brother. She nearly wanted to start dancing in the middle of the throne room, so ecstatic was she.

"From what I have heard," Lothíriel said, and it seemed to Gúthwyn as if her tone had turned rather cool, "you are quite the… opponent."

Éomer and Gúthwyn exchanged glances. "In more ways than one," Éomer muttered.

Gúthwyn giggled. "When are we leaving?" she asked eagerly.

"Within the week," was Éomer's response.

"So soon?" Lothíriel questioned, her eyes widening the tiniest bit.

"I know it is short notice," Éomer replied apologetically, "but I just received a letter from Erkenbrand today, telling me that he was ready for a final inspection."

Gúthwyn's grin was stretched from ear to ear. "I cannot wait!" she said.

Even Éomer could not conceal his amusement. "The children may come as well, if they wish," he added. "They might like to see the fortress."

At this, her delight became so great that she went over and embraced him. He laughed and returned the hug. "Thank you so much," she whispered, and then asked, "Have I ever told you that you are my favorite brother?"

He mock-glared at her as she pulled away. "I am your only brother!"

"Well, that, too," Gúthwyn conceded, sighing happily. "Just think: A few days' worth of insulting you on the road—it shall do me much good."

Éomer snorted. "I may regret saying this later, but I am looking forward to it."

Grinning mischievously, Gúthwyn turned to Lothíriel. "Is there anything of recent occurrence that I can use against him?"

"No, I am afraid not," was Lothíriel's reply, and she looked coolly at her husband's sister. For some reason, Gúthwyn thought she detected a trace of hurt beneath the queen's icy gaze; then she blinked, and it was devoid of emotion.

"I am sure we shall think of something," Gúthwyn at last said, brushing her worries away from her mind. Lothíriel was likely unhappy to be missing the trip—she knew she would have been.

Yet as Gúthwyn bade the queen and Éomer goodnight, and turned to go to her chambers, she caught another glimpse of those enigmatic eyes and felt a tremor of unease roll through her.

* * *

"Hammel, you be good until I get back, do you understand?" Gúthwyn asked, putting her hands on the boy's shoulders. "Pray do not give Cobryn any trouble." 

Hammel nodded silently. She leaned over and kissed him on the top of his head. "Then I will see you again within two weeks. Farewell."

"Have fun," he said, nodding.

True to the time of year, it was a bright and sunny day, full of promise and the scent of things about to bloom. Gúthwyn had risen early in the morning and garbed herself in a riding dress, then packed what she would need for the week in Borogor's bag. Now it was almost noon, and she was standing outside of the Golden Hall next to the group of men that she would be traveling to Helm's Deep with.

With Éomer's blessing, she had asked the children if they wanted to accompany her on the journey and see the fortress, but only Haiweth had been interested. Hammel had declined, and upon questioning Cobryn she had discovered that the child had a dislike for stone walls, such as those of Minas Tirith. This had puzzled her at first, though she had then remembered that the feature was almost completely nonexistent in Udûn, and he would not have been used to them.

It pained her to part with Hammel, but it was only for a little over a week, and he would be under Cobryn's care for the duration of her absence. Nor could her mood be dampened much: She was so eager to see Tun that she would have gladly galloped all the way to Helm's Deep, had Heorot's stamina and Éomer permitted it.

"Try not to embarrass your brother," someone said, and she turned to see Cobryn smirking at her.

"Oh, be quiet," she retorted, lightly hitting him in the arm. "Éomer is too overbearing sometimes."

"Like the Gondorian nobles?" Cobryn inquired, his eyes sparkling with laughter.

Gúthwyn groaned. "They were horrible! And the Valar know what they think of me."

"Or me," Cobryn said, smiling. "I think they thought I was the children's father."

"Probably," Gúthwyn agreed, rolling her eyes. "Well, I suppose we will see each other in about two weeks."

"Aye, enjoy yourself," Cobryn bade her. "Send Tun my greetings."

Gúthwyn promised him that she would, and then they parted, he going to stand at Hammel's side and she making her way to where her brother and Lothíriel were. She held back a little, not wishing to intrude on their farewells; to occupy herself, she gazed around at the crowd that had gathered to see them off. Almost every single person she had acquainted herself with over the years, and she waved at many of them.

"My lady?"

Turning, Gúthwyn saw Elfhelm approaching her. "Hello," she greeted him cheerily.

"Are you looking forward to being reunited with Tun?" he asked her, though the amusement on his face told her that he knew the answer clearly.

Nevertheless, Gúthwyn nodded. "I have not been so excited for months," she replied, unable to keep the foolish grin from her lips.

"I can see that," Elfhelm answered, smirking. "Although I expect that Éomer is less enthused."

"What am I less enthused about?" a deep voice sounded from behind them. They looked over to see Éomer approaching them curiously. Lothíriel was beside him, surveying the scene quietly.

Elfhelm exchanged a brief, almost imperceptible glance with Gúthwyn, and said, "To be parting with your beautiful wife."

"That I am," Éomer murmured, slipping an arm about Lothíriel's waist. As usual, she flushed, but a smile graced her features.

"Farewell, my lord," Elfhelm said, and then bowed to Gúthwyn.

Éomer and Gúthwyn returned his goodbyes; after, the king of Rohan kissed his wife on the cheek and promised to send word as soon as they had reached Helm's Deep.

"Well, Gúthwyn, are you ready?" he asked, once he was done. "Where is Haiweth?"

Gúthwyn had not seen the child for several minutes, and stood on her tiptoes to look across the crowd. At length, she saw Haiweth talking to Hammel, a forlorn expression on her face. When Gúthwyn called her name, she glanced up. Then she reached over and gave Hammel a quick hug, surprising the boy. Nevertheless, he embraced her in return, whispering something in her ear.

Once Haiweth had separated from her brother and run over to stand before Gúthwyn, she promptly said, "I miss Hammel."

"So do I, little one," Gúthwyn replied, and she meant it. "How about you help me write him a letter once we get there?"

Haiweth looked slightly appeased at this solution, and nodded eagerly.

"Did you put your things near Heorot?" Gúthwyn inquired.

"Yes," Haiweth said, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet impatiently. "Can we go now?"

"Aye," Éomer spoke, chuckling. "We are going."

Haiweth beamed, and waved at the queen. "Goodbye, Lothíriel!"

There was a pause. "Goodbye, Haiweth," Lothíriel at last said, a small smile on her face. "Farewell, Gúthwyn."

Gúthwyn nodded. "Farewell. Remind me to introduce you to Tun when we return."

"I am looking forward to it," Lothíriel replied, a slight arch in her eyebrow.

"Now, Gúthwyn," Éomer said in an undertone as they started making their way towards the horses, "please show some propriety."

"Brother, you worry too much," Gúthwyn replied automatically, putting a hand on Haiweth's shoulder to keep her out of the way of some stableboys walking by. "Besides, might I remind you of the first time you saw Lothíriel? Now, _that_ is what I call a lack of propriety. I would not have been surprised if drool came out of your mouth!"

"Be quiet, little sister," Éomer growled, giving her a light shove.

"Who are you calling little?" she demanded, whacking him on the arm. "I am not that much shorter than you!"

Éomer snorted. "By well over a foot," he retorted.

"Besides, Éomer," Haiweth said smugly, "_I_ am the little one."

At this, Gúthwyn and Éomer both laughed. "Right you are, Haiweth," Gúthwyn affectionately agreed.

Then she grinned devilishly at Éomer. "This is going to be a fun trip."

He could only groan in response. "A very fun trip," she decided.

Neither of them noticed Lothíriel's eyes narrowing, or marked how alone she seemed as she stood on the steps and watched the departure of her husband and his sister. Nor were they there an hour later, when all of the crowd had dispersed. Nay, there was only the queen of Rohan on the landing, the phrase _this is going to be a fun trip_ ringing in her mind.


	33. Reunion

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirty-Three:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

"Gúthwyn?"

The daughter of Éomund glanced up from the piece of parchment she was holding. Haiweth was approaching her, a large slice of bread in her hand that was steadily being consumed. "What are you reading?" the girl asked curiously.

Gúthwyn smiled, and shifted over so that Haiweth could sit beside her. After a lengthy day of riding, they were taking their evening rest. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows on the ground and obscuring the men's facial features. Éomer's empty pallet was near hers; currently, he was getting some dinner. Gúthwyn had already had a small amount of food, and was now reclining against a good-sized boulder.

"A letter from Prince Elphir," she explained, showing it to Haiweth. True to his word, Elphir had written to her within weeks of his departure from Edoras. The two of them had maintained a correspondence ever since, and she looked forward immensely to each new installment. He kept her up to date with Alphros' latest mishaps, his skill as a writer making his words both eloquent and humorous. She, in turn, was not as good a scribe, but told him much of what was happening in her life.

Haiweth wrinkled her nose as she read it. "Why is he writing to you?" she wanted to know, gazing up at Gúthwyn.

"Because we are friends," Gúthwyn replied, smiling. Haiweth's words had reminded her of another's: Lothíriel's. When the queen had discovered that her brother was sending letters to her husband's sister, she had been greatly intrigued. Well, intrigued was perhaps not the right word. Lothíriel had certainly been interested in knowing what Elphir was saying, but Gúthwyn thought she had detected disapproval beneath the questions.

Meanwhile, however, Haiweth seemed satisfied with her account, and handed the letter back to her. "When are we going to get there?" she asked, leaning against Gúthwyn and resting her head tiredly on the woman's shoulder.

"Tomorrow," Gúthwyn answered, absent-mindedly running her fingers through Haiweth's hair. "But were you not pleased by the sights you have seen on the road?"

"Too many fields," Haiweth complained, and Gúthwyn laughed. It was true that they were traveling through the Westfold, where all the crops were grown. Nor had the region returned to its glory of old: Many of the grasses had yet to regain their former length, and most of the wildflowers were only just beginning to shoot their leaves up through the ground. The Uruk-hai had been thorough in their destruction—it was that, in part, which had led Éomer's advisors to find a wife for him as soon as possible: Any additional source of income, namely a bride's dowry, was needed. Though Éomer was loth to use a woman in such a manner, the economy of Rohan had been devastated by the pillaging of the Westfold.

Speaking of Éomer… There he was, making his way towards her with a bowl of steaming soup in his hands. The smell of it was only vaguely enticing to Gúthwyn.

"Have you eaten yet, sister?" Éomer inquired, taking note of the bread that Haiweth was still eating, and the lack of a similar substance in Gúthwyn's hands. His eyes soon fell on Elphir's letter.

"Yes, I have," she assured him, and then satisfied his unvoiced curiosity. "It is from Elphir."

Éomer's eyes widened, though his surprise was swiftly replaced by a smirk. "And yet you persist on denying an attraction to him. Now you are carrying around his letters?"

"I am hardly carrying them around," she retorted, rolling her eyes. The truth of the matter was, she had just received this one a day ago, and had not had the time to read it before they departed for Helm's Deep.

"So, what does this one say?" Éomer inquired, raising his eyebrows as he settled onto his pallet and prepared to eat his stew.

Gúthwyn sighed exasperatedly, and looked down at the words on the page. Haiweth leaned over her shoulder, and the two of them skimmed through it together.

"'I am hoping that we will see each other soon,'" Haiweth read aloud, and Gúthwyn winced: That was not the line she would have chosen to show her brother. Nor was what Haiweth said next, which was included in the postscript. "'I shall be looking forward to your reply every day.'"

Éomer's shrewd eyes bored into hers. "And when, exactly, will you listen to reason and figure out that he is clearly interested in you?"

"Éomer, stop it," Gúthwyn replied, unable to conceal the blush that was now spreading over her cheeks. She prayed that it was dark enough so that he did not notice it. "The rest of the letter is not like that, listen. 'I hope you and the children are doing well… in other news, I took Alphros for a ride today along the shore… my father told the most amusing joke at dinner yesterday, and I thought you might find it humorous also…' And so on and so forth. You are making too much of a fuss over this."

"Lothíriel would not agree with you on that account," was Éomer's response.

"I am sure Lothíriel would not agree with me on many accounts," Gúthwyn said, grinning; "especially on what it means to be an accomplished lady."

Chuckling, Éomer told her, "If you would only apply yourself, you might be surprised at how well you could sew, dance, or sing. Well, perhaps not sew, but you know what I mean."

She giggled. "Alas, I am hopeless. Yet I care not. I would rather spend my hours with Hammel and Haiweth here"—she kissed the girl's forehead—"than inside learning how to jab a needle at a piece of fabric."

Éomer nearly choked on his soup at her description of what sewing was. Haiweth grinned impishly to see the king of Rohan pressing his hand over his mouth for fear of spewing out what was inside. "You look funny," she said happily.

"Is it not your bedtime?" Éomer grumbled once he had recovered.

At the mention of bedtime, Haiweth's shoulders slumped, and she quickly looked up at Gúthwyn for reassurance that she would not be made to lie down. Eyes were wide, the perfect picture of innocence.

"Sorry, little one," Gúthwyn said, "but I believe my brother is right. "We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and we were riding for many hours today. It would be best for you to get some sleep."

Haiweth scowled. The fake tear that had been forming in the corner of her eye was wiped away, and for several minutes she occupied herself with ignoring Gúthwyn while Éomer looked on amusedly. Nevertheless, she lay down beneath the thick blanket Gúthwyn had brought, and reluctantly closed her eyes.

"Goodnight, Haiweth," Gúthwyn murmured, and received a grudging "goodnight" in response.

Once Haiweth's breathing had slowed, which took a remarkably short time for all her insistence on not being tired, Gúthwyn turned once more to Éomer. "Besides," she said quietly, "I would rather not put anyone through the misery of having to teach me."

Aware that Haiweth was supposed to be asleep, Éomer restrained himself from snickering, but seemed as if he were close to it. "Aye, that would be quite a drain on the royal funds," he mused. "I would have to pay them twice as much for the job."

"So, in conclusion," Gúthwyn said cheerily, "I need never have lessons."

"There may come a time in your life when you might wish you had them," Éomer spoke sagely, finishing the last of his stew and setting it aside. All around them, the other men were preparing to go to bed as well. They would be riding by mid-morning tomorrow, and though they were going at an easy pace, it was the hope of many to reach Helm's Deep by the afternoon.

"And when would that be?" Gúthwyn questioned, arching an eyebrow.

"When impressing someone means not being their better on the field, but at the court," Éomer said.

The words mystified her. "What do you mean by being better than someone at the court?" she wondered aloud.

"Well," Éomer began, "take your friend Cobryn, for instance. We all know he could not emerge the victor of a duel with any of the men, but he is by far their superior in the art of diplomacy. And, as of late, it has been that skill—rather than talent with a blade—that has brought prosperity to our realm."

This was likely true, as Cobryn had been one of the main negotiators between Dol Amroth and Rohan concerning the union of Éomer and Lothíriel, but it suited Gúthwyn little. "I am not one of your advisors," she argued. "I am your sister."

"All the more reason for you to learn the tactics of mental agility," Éomer replied. "I admit that I am not as cunning as some, for Lothíriel is clearly more able in that regard, but I know a few things. And I can tell you now that Elphir desires more than just your friendship."

He had brought the conversation right back to where they started, a trick that Cobryn had used on her often whenever she changed the subject abruptly. Now Gúthwyn glared at her brother, and said, "You suspect too much. He is an honorable man. Furthermore, you always seemed inclined to reach for your sword whenever someone of the opposite gender so much as looks at me!"

"Gúthwyn," Éomer started impatiently, with the air of a person explaining that two and two is four, "he is almost being more obvious than—" Yet he fell silent, and did not finish even though she probed him.

"Fine," she said eventually, "have it your way, _my lord._ It—" But she, too, was quiet. A movement had just come from Haiweth's pallet, so tiny that Gúthwyn almost did not catch it. The girl was turned away from her; quickly, Gúthwyn glanced at Éomer and pressed her finger to her lips. Then she leaned over, and with a sudden motion was able to see the child's face. Haiweth's eyes were wide open.

"Haiweth!" Gúthwyn admonished her.

Giggling, though looking a little guilty, Haiweth covered her eyes and beamed up at Gúthwyn.

"By the Valar," Gúthwyn muttered, but not unkindly. "Éomer, I think it is time I went to bed, as well. Maybe that will help."

Éomer nodded. "Goodnight," he said. "Sleep well."

"You, too," Gúthwyn replied, smiling. Then she turned to Haiweth. "Come, little one," she said. "Now I mean it."

Haiweth sighed a bit, but was complacent enough to roll over and close her eyes. Gúthwyn lay down as well, putting an arm around the child out of habit. "Goodnight, Haiweth," she whispered.

"Goodnight," was the bleary answer.

* * *

The sun was high overhead in a brilliant blue sky, streaming down onto the party on horseback as they made their way towards the Deeping-coomb. King Éomer was at the front of the group, and at his side was Gúthwyn, Haiweth sharing her saddle. Around them and behind them were some of the royal guards, and other men of the Mark who desired to gaze upon the fortress of Helm's Deep. Laughter and conversation rose into the air, signs of a people who no longer had fear of ambush upon the open road.

"How big is it going to be?" Haiweth wondered, craning her neck up to look at Gúthwyn.

"Not as big as Minas Tirith," Gúthwyn replied, "but good enough. It was the site of a large battle three years ago."

She did not add that she had fought along with the other men—only Legolas knew the secret, and she intended to keep it that way.

Haiweth knitted her brow. "Was that the one where the women and children were in the caves?"

"Aye, it was," Gúthwyn answered, sobering a little as she thought of that dark night. Several good men had fallen to the blades of the Uruk-hai; some had not even seen fifteen winters. She herself had not escaped unharmed. Sighing, she said, "I will take you to see the caves, as well. They sparkle as if they are made out of jewels."

"Hence," Éomer contributed, "their name is the Glittering Caves of Aglarond."

"Are there real jewels inside?" Haiweth wanted to know, her eyes wide at the thought.

Laughing, Gúthwyn said, "No, little one, unfortunately there are not."

Haiweth pouted for a moment, and then brightened as they began riding up a large hill. Knowing where this led to, Gúthwyn told her, "Once we crest this mound, you shall be able to see Helm's Deep from afar."

Eager to arrive at their destination, the men pushed their horses faster. Gúthwyn did so as well, though she was careful to keep the pace within Heorot's limits. While the horse had not showed his age as much since her race with Elphir, she was still cautious about working him too hard. He was a beloved companion, and she did not want to lose him through her own carelessness.

Finally, they came to the top of the hill. By unspoken agreement they all paused, staring at the fortress in awe and wonder. When many of them—including Gúthwyn—had last seen it, there had been a gaping hole in the Deeping Wall; the doors had been shattered, cracked and twisted beyond repair; Elven corpses had littered the ground, giving off a foul reek and covered in black blood.

Even from a distance, it was evident to see that this was no longer the case. The Deeping Wall again ran unbroken, and the two large mounds that Gúthwyn knew to contain the bodies of valiant Riders were now green with thick grasses. A small remnant of the forest that had once sprawled over the entrance to the valley, cutting the Uruk-hai off from there escape, now lingered, guarding over the Elves that had been buried there at Legolas' command. And a fourth mound, one that contained the fallen Uruk-hai, was bare: Nothing would ever grow on so fetid a soil.

Haiweth's murmur of awe was what drew her back to her senses, and she glanced down with a smile to see a pair of eyes so round that they were nearly popping out of the girl's head. "This is enormous!"

"It is," Gúthwyn agreed, pleased to see that Haiweth was so delighted by it. "And it is very old, as well."

They looked at it for another minute, and then Éomer nudged Firefoot forward. The group rode down the hill and into the gorge, drawing steadily closer to the fortress. Within a few minutes, Gúthwyn could see the small outlines of men along the Deeping Wall. She wondered if any of them was Tun.

At the thought of her champion, excitement raced through her veins. At long last, after over a year of not seeing to him or talking to him, they would finally be reunited. The anticipation must have been radiating off of her onto Heorot, for he began going faster. Haiweth cried out in surprise at the change of speed, but quickly grew accustomed to it and was soon grinning in euphoria.

Almost before Gúthwyn was aware of it, the ramp was in front of them, and Éomer led the group up the stone causeway. The doors—made out of _mithril_, to Gúthwyn's everlasting awe—were opened from inside, swinging out to meet them. Men were lined along the hall, shouting and waving at their king. Éomer called out to several of them, clearly delighted to see his people so happy.

As they rode into the fortress, Gúthwyn kept her eyes open for Tun, but did not see him. Then again, he was likely waiting alongside Erkenbrand within the inner court. In any case, her attention was momentarily distracted by Haiweth's gasps of wonder and amazement. The girl's head was swiveling around so fast that it was a miracle her neck did not break.

Only a minute or two had gone by before they arrived at the inner court, bringing their horses to a stop. Gúthwyn stroked Heorot's mane, whispering her thanks in his ear. When she saw Éomer dismounting, she followed suit, and held her arms out so that Haiweth could get off easier. A stableboy came and took Heorot's reins; at permission from Gúthwyn, he began leading the horse away.

"I want to go exploring!" Haiweth exclaimed, clutching at Gúthwyn's hands and gaping at all that she saw.

"Do not worry, I will show you around," Gúthwyn replied, grinning. A quick glance around the court showed her that not much of the inside had changed, for it had only been in the last hours of the battle that the Uruks had stormed it. The worst damage, she believed, had been a few overturned tables.

It was then that they heard someone cry, "My lord!"

Turning around, Gúthwyn saw Éomer exchanging greetings with Erkenbrand. As Haiweth pulled away from her, interested in the appearance of a Dwarf, Gúthwyn rose on the balls of her feet to see if Tun was there. Her heart leapt when she saw him. After an entire year, he still looked exactly like the wonderful man she had parted from. He was standing a few feet behind Erkenbrand, looking nervously at Éomer and not saying anything. From the expression on his face, she could tell that he had no idea that she was here.

_Excellent,_ she thought to herself, smiling. _I will surprise him, before he has a chance to shy away._

With that in mind, she started making her way towards the three men, glad that she had worn a grey dress—she was less conspicuous in the crowd. Her brother's back was only a few feet away from her.

"Lady Gúthwyn?" Erkenbrand suddenly asked, catching sight of her. His eyes widened.

Éomer turned around, and Tun's posture straightened considerably. Gúthwyn waved at Erkenbrand, but her gaze was fixed on her champion. He looked as if he could hardly believe what he was seeing. Rapidly he blinked; then his mouth opened, and he choked out, "My lady?"

Gúthwyn approached him, nearly quivering with happiness. Tun drew closer to her, almost automatically, and gave her a tentative smile.

It was all that she needed. The next instant, she was in his arms, hugging him fiercely and whispering, "I missed you so much!"

He did not hesitate this time, and Gúthwyn felt herself being picked up and whirled around in a full circle. Laughter, pure and untarnished by restrictions of propriety, escaped her, and when she was brought back to her feet she stood on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Tun," she murmured, drawing back slightly to examine his face. The familiar features were unchanged, although his skin was darker from hours of work in the sun. His eyes were sparkling, and his mouth was stretched into a broad grin.

"My lady," he breathed, letting his hands rest on her waist, "I did not expect—I did not know—"

"Did you think I would miss the opportunity to see my champion?" Gúthwyn asked amusedly. "Honestly, Tun." Yet she was grinning like a fool, and impulsively hugged him once more.

In the end, it was a loud, indiscreet cough from behind them that brought them back to their senses. Guiltily realizing that they were surrounded by people—including Éomer—Gúthwyn pulled away from her champion. Her cheeks were flushed as she looked around and saw that nearly all the men in the court were watching her and Tun with broad smirks tugging at their lips. Likewise, Tun's face was equally pink.

"Well, Gúthwyn, I see you are happy to be here," someone rumbled, and she glanced down to see Gimli in front of her, grinning.

All of the blood rushed into Gúthwyn's head. Though there was nothing to gossip about between her and Tun, the men's tongues would certainly wag and embellish what they had seen. Cobryn had said as much to her when Elflede had seen them behind the pillar; now she wondered if the same would happen.

"Hello, Gimli," she said awkwardly. Over the Dwarf's shoulder, Erkenbrand and Éomer were staring at her. The latter looked as if he had developed a sudden head cold.

"Do not be ashamed," Gimli replied, chuckling. "That lad was as moody as a pregnant woman without—"  
"Gimli!" Tun hissed, turning scarlet with embarrassment. Gúthwyn could not help laughing, knowing that there were periods when she had been the same way.

"Sister," Éomer said wearily, coming towards her. She sobered, wondering if he would get angry at Tun. "Gúthwyn, I…"

He did not finish the sentence, and instead sighed. "Come, find Haiweth. Let us go to our rooms."

Gúthwyn looked at him in confusion, unsure of what was causing his apparent fatigue. But then she saw Tun, and was unable to keep the smile from spreading across her face. "Tun," she said softly, leaning over to talk to him.

"Yes, my lady?" he asked, glancing nervously at Éomer.

"It is good to see you again."

A contented expression crossed his face. "I am glad you are here."

"Gúthwyn," Éomer said, more of a warning tone in his voice.

Quickly, Gúthwyn obeyed, not wishing to get into another altercation. Surveying the crowd, she saw Haiweth chatting with the Dwarf that had captivated her interest. The Dwarf did not quite seem to know what to make of the talkative girl; he was shifting awkwardly at his feet, though Haiweth did not seem to notice.

Resisting the urge to laugh, Gúthwyn called, "Haiweth! Come!"

Haiweth bid farewell to the Dwarf and trotted over. "Did you see his beard?" she asked, not troubling to keep her voice down.

"Haiweth, not so loud," Gúthwyn admonished her, but nodded nevertheless. "Although, I believe Gimli's is longer."

Her eyes met the Dwarf's, twinkling with amusement. He winked at her.

"Éomer, what is wrong?" Haiweth inquired tentatively, looking up at the king of Rohan.

Concernedly, Gúthwyn too examined her brother. "Nothing," was his response. "It has been a long day."

"It is only the afternoon," Haiweth pointed out.

Éomer did not answer.


	34. Just a Game of Tag

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. The Fellowship of the Ring had two books within the text, as did The Two Towers and The Return of the King. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where The Fellowship of the Ring started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirty-Four:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

Gúthwyn never did find out what it was that had troubled Éomer, but soon she forgot altogether his uneasiness. The rest of the day she spent showing Haiweth around the fortress and marveling at the repairs that had been made, especially to the Deeping Wall. Much to her delight, Tun accompanied them. Now, as evening approached, they were gazing out across the gorge, talking quietly while Haiweth sat on the wall and swung her legs over the edge.

"Tell me, Tun," Gúthwyn began, smiling at him. "Have you had much chance to practice with your sword?"

Ruefully, he shook his head. "Not much," he admitted. "There was a great amount of work to be done, and we have only just finished."

Gúthwyn nodded. "It looks wonderful," she commented. "I do not doubt that the fortress is stronger than before. Erkenbrand must be pleased."

"Aye, he is," Tun said. "And now that the Westfold is on its way to recovery, he is even happier."

"I can imagine," she agreed. "What of you? How have you been?"

Tun draped his cloak on the parapet and leaned over, as if to look down at the Deeping Stream. Yet his eyes were on her, and his voice was subdued as he said, "I have missed you, my lady. It has been far too long."

"It has," she murmured sadly. "I hardly know where to begin; how could I possibly describe a whole year in an adequate enough way?"

"I could tell you the story of the past twelve months in a few words," Tun replied wryly. "Misery, and stone. Lots of stone."

In spite of herself, she could not help smiling. "Well, soon you will see Edoras again," she said, glancing at him. "Éomer will not be as harsh with you, now that he has his wife to mind."

"Do you think he has… do you think he has forgiven me?" Tun asked, anxiety shadowing his eyes.

"You have done nothing that needs to be forgiven," Gúthwyn responded firmly. "Forgotten? I doubt he has. But it matters not."

"Forgotten what?" Haiweth wanted to know, kicking her legs in the direction of the forest before looking up at them.

Gúthwyn and Tun exchanged glances. "It is a long story, little one," Gúthwyn said at length, stroking the girl's hair. "Perhaps one day, when you are older, you shall learn of it."

Annoyed that she had to be patient, Haiweth gave a dramatic pout, and folded her arms across her chest for an added effect. "Have you told Hammel?" she questioned, scowling at the idea that her brother knew something she did not.

"No, I have not," Gúthwyn assured her. _Though he has likely figured it out, or been informed by Cobryn._ She was beginning to discover that there was very little the boy was not aware of.

A cold breeze then blew from the east, and she shivered. Though it was April, and the weather was usually milder at this time of year, her body had not adjusted to the change of seasons, and believed it to still be winter. Hunching over in an effort to retain some heat, she trembled in the cool air. Her teeth were chattering. _By the Valar,_ she thought irritably, _must it be so freezing?_

As her discomfort reached higher levels, she felt something thick and warm being placed gently on her shoulders. Starting, she looked over to see that Tun had taken his cloak from the parapet and given it to her.

"Thank you," she said, flushing a little.

"It is my pleasure," Tun replied, smiling at her.

Amused at his chivalry, Gúthwyn was about to say something in response, but then she realized that he had not taken his hands from her shoulders. Her quizzical eyes met his.

"The clasp is broken," Tun explained sheepishly. She saw that he was, indeed, right—nor would she have been able to wrap it around herself, for she was busy making sure Haiweth did not fall from the ledge. "I have not gotten it fixed yet. Do you mind?"

Gúthwyn found herself shaking her head. "No," she said. "I do not."

And as time went by, she saw that there was truth in her words. His hands were an excellent source of heat, and she knew she could trust her champion; therefore she did not think much about moving closer to him. The proximity of their bodies was only a marginal cause for discomfort as she felt herself being gradually warmed, so that soon she was no longer shivering.

Haiweth swung her legs some more, and none of them noticed the two figures watching them from the Hornburg.

* * *

"She is in love with him." 

The words that Éomer Éomundson spoke rang hollowly in his head, and fell from numb lips.

Beside him, Erkenbrand did not say anything. Instead, he continued to gaze at the lady on the Deeping Wall, the lady who was in the arms of her champion. A cold chill swept over Éomer.

"What am I to do?"

Erkenbrand shifted, and took one last glance at Gúthwyn, Tun, and Haiweth before turning his attention to his king. "What can you do?"

A frustrated hand ran through golden hair. "I thought she was oblivious to his interest in her," Éomer muttered. "I thought… but now it is too clear that I was wrong."

And how could he be right, when he himself had witnessed their joyful reunion? Everyone in the Hornburg had seen the looks on their faces when Tun had swept Gúthwyn into his arms. She had been happier than she had been in months; he had not been able to tear his eyes away from her. Not to mention how, without a second thought, his baby sister had clung to him and kissed him…

His baby sister. Besides Lothíriel, the one person he never wanted to part with for the rest of his life—Gúthwyn was in love with someone, and it was not unrequited. Yet how could he refuse her, when Tun worked up the courage to ask her to marry him? He himself had desired to see her a wife, perhaps more than she realized. It was a hope of his that a husband would help her forget all that had happened to her in Mordor, and show her that she no longer had cause for fear. However, now that push came to shove, he found himself regretting his thoughts.

It was not that Tun was not a good man. As much as Éomer hated to admit it, his sister's champion was a decent, hardworking person. He was honest, caring, and willing to do anything for his lady. But the older brother in Éomer was bent on disliking anyone who expressed such an interest in Gúthwyn; nor would his pride allow him to confess to making a mistake.

"I think the separation… had the opposite effect intended," Erkenbrand ventured, sighing.

Éomer nodded heavily. Below them, Tun leaned over to whisper something in Gúthwyn's ear. She giggled, the sounds drifting painfully up to the Hornburg, and smiled at him. Éomer was reminded of how such a small expression completely changed her—she went from being a fragile, pale creature to the carefree, jubilant sister he had known before her captivity.

That only served for his conscience to tell him sternly that he had even more cause not to deny Gúthwyn happiness, if she found it in Tun. She had experienced nothing but misery, terror, and humiliation for over seven years. Whoever it was that she had given her heart to had perished during that time; Éomer knew nothing of the man, but he had seen the haunting grief in her eyes whenever he was mentioned. So who was he to forbid her from marrying, if she had finally recovered and was willing to love again?

However, he could not help but think of Elphir. There was an obvious attraction on the prince's part to Gúthwyn, and Éomer had the sneaking suspicion that his sister was more than flattered by his attention. After all, they exchanged letters frequently, and her cheeks always turned pink whenever the correspondence was brought up. Then there was the fact that Elphir was the heir to Dol Amroth, and Lothíriel's brother: They had everything to gain from a double alliance, and nothing to lose. Furthermore, Elphir was hardly an arrogant heir: He was courteous, well-spoken, talented with a blade, and had excellent manners. Éomer knew that many women could only dream of having such a husband.

Because of all of Elphir's advantages over Tun, Éomer's mind was inclined to push for a union between the prince and his sister, rather than a guard. But he did not want to force Gúthwyn into a marriage if she loved another; nor was that fair to Elphir. And now that he thought of these matters, he began to think of another thing. Why should Gúthwyn not have a say in the person she chose to marry? Éowyn had fallen in love with Faramir, and Éomer had not been nearly as reluctant to give his blessings to the couple as he would be if Tun asked for his permission to marry Gúthwyn.

"Éomer?"

Glancing up, the king of Rohan realized that Erkenbrand had been trying to get his attention for some time. "My apologies, what were you saying?" he inquired, glancing at Gúthwyn as he did so. His hands instinctively curled into fists as he saw that she had moved closer to Tun; their bodies were so close together that there was almost no separation between them.

"This may not be what you want to hear," Erkenbrand replied quietly, "but if she marries Tun, she will still be living in Edoras. You would be able to see her every day."

Éomer was about to retort angrily that that was not the point, but then the impact of Erkenbrand's words hit him. There was, in fact, one thing that Tun did have over Elphir: Distance. If Éomer arranged for a marriage between Gúthwyn and the prince of Dol Amroth, he would be lucky to see her once a year. After all, Éowyn had just recently visited for the first time in two years—though they had written each other, it was definitely not the same as living in the same household. He knew Éowyn was independent, and strong enough to take care of herself, but with Gúthwyn he worried. She was so frail, and so shadowed by the horrors of her past, that he feared what she would do if there was no one in her home who knew what she had been through and would be able to sufficiently comfort her.

Did he really want to send Gúthwyn all the way to the Sea, and watch as she completely disappeared from his life?

"That is true," he at last said, sighing. "But she..."

He could not put into words what was wrong with his sister marrying Tun. Everything, the stubborn part of him insisted. But it was something else… he simply could not picture her with a man, or with the rounded stomach of pregnancy. In fact, now that he thought of it, he could not imagine her giving birth to a child—she was simply too thin, her hips even narrower than Lothíriel's. Éowyn would not have difficulty; he could tell by looking at her that she had the perfect frame for bearing children. Yet with Gúthwyn… it seemed almost like an impossibility.

"I know how you feel," Erkenbrand commented, "although I have never been faced with your problems. But I trust that you will do what is right."

Éomer looked at his friend. "What do you think of… of a union between your nephew and my sister?"

Erkenbrand hesitated. "I will not pretend that I do not want Tun to be happy. He has been in love with Gúthwyn for two years now, and I know for a fact that he has not strayed in his loyalty towards her. Though before I cautioned him against the idea, and I thought it for the best when Gamling reprimanded him, I find myself more willing to welcome the lady Gúthwyn into my family."

Éomer's eyes widened. He had missed that connection. "Aye, she would be akin to your niece, then."

"Never had one," Erkenbrand said with a grin, and then sobered. "My sister's husband was killed in a raid less than a year after Tun was born, and she did not remarry."

Vaguely remembering the incident, Éomer nodded. But as sensible as Erkenbrand's opinion was, it did not make his decision any less difficult. For, if Gúthwyn indeed returned Tun's love—his eyes fixed on her and watched as she spoke softly to her champion, her face only a few inches from his—he had to choose between two conflicting interests in his own heart. He could forbid the marriage, and ensure that Tun's hands never touched his sister again. Or he could give Gúthwyn the happiness she deserved, and watch as she became a wife and a mother, no longer needing her brother's support.

He focused once more on Gúthwyn, trying to find something in her actions that would give him an answer. She seemed to be ready to go inside; Haiweth, at any rate, had climbed down from the wall. As he surveyed the scene, his sister said something to Tun, and he smiled while taking back the cloak he had put on her shoulders. He draped the garment over his arm, but not before Éomer had seen him gently touching the warm fabric.

And then the king of Rohan's stomach clenched, for Gúthwyn had taken her champion's hand, and was swinging it happily as they walked down the Deeping Wall. There was no other way to interpret the gesture. He knew what he had to do.

When Tun came to him and asked for Gúthwyn's hand, he would say yes.

* * *

It was the last night of their visit to Helm's Deep. King Éomer had toured the fortress and pronounced it to his satisfaction; he had negotiated with Gimli and given him leave to work longer in the caves; the men had packed their bags and were ready to return home. As elaborate a dinner as was possible to make with only one cook had just been consumed by everyone in a farewell feast, and now most were preparing to retire so that they could get an early start in the morning. 

Gúthwyn, Haiweth, and Tun were in the midst of a walk along the Deeping Wall, accompanied by Gimli. The Dwarf was in the process of finishing his account of Dwarven deeds to Gúthwyn. She had long ago lost track of this ruler or that, and could not tell her Thorins from her Thráins, but it was not for lack of trying. Yet she managed to understand the gist of what he was saying, even if she often did not know who was where with whom.

"And that, my lady," Gimli at length rumbled, having brought to a conclusion the tale of the assault by Sauron upon Erebor during the War of the Ring, "is how my people remained unconquered, and are prosperous even to this day."

"Their valor must have been great," Gúthwyn agreed; "no less so than those, such as yourself, who fought upon the Pelennor Fields."

Gimli's chest puffed with pride. "Dwarves are a hearty folk," he said. "Legolas' Elves could not have done better."

Smiling, doing her best to keep a shudder from rippling across her body, Gúthwyn replied, "They also fended off invasion from the south, did they not?"

"Aye, that they did," Gimli acknowledged. "He told me of it while we were on our trip."

"What trip?" Haiweth inquired, who up until now had been relatively quiet.

"Legolas and I promised each other to go through the Glittering Caves and his Fangorn Forest, if we both came out of the war alive," Gimli informed her.

Gúthwyn glanced at Tun; both of them shook their heads in wry amusement, not understanding the attraction of such features.

"To each his own," Gúthwyn at last said, chuckling. "I may not comprehend the wonder that you view the caves with, Gimli, but I am just as sure you cannot imagine why my people love horses so much."

"Although, I think you are outnumbered on this," Tun contributed, smiling a little. "You and your stone..."

Gimli snorted. "Me and my stone? You and your horses! I have never seen why you insist on putting yourself at the mercy of those creatures."

"We just have more patience than you," Tun answered swiftly, and Gimli shot a beady-eyed glare at him. "Not to mention that we are tall enough to get ourselves on the animal."

"That was low," Gimli growled, though his eyes were sparkling.

"Arguably in the literal sense," Tun said, and the three of them chuckled while Gimli fumed appropriately.

They had come to a stop now, and were gazing across the valley towards where the slain had been buried in four hills: three flourishing with long grasses and bright flowers, and one utterly devoid of life. Gúthwyn, Haiweth, and Tun had played tag in the gorge once, though all three of them had been careful to avoid running on the mounds of the fallen.

Tun sighed. "That was a long battle," he murmured, and Gimli nodded in consent. Gúthwyn bit her tongue so that she did not join them. Legolas remained the only one who knew that she had fought, and she did not wish for her brother to find out and become irritated with her again.

"By now, many of the hurts will have healed," she instead commented, "and that is good. Yet at the same time, your bravery will be remembered long."

"Indeed," Tun said, "there are few who still suffer wounds. Even poor Ecgulf, whose leg nearly had to be amputated, has for the most part recovered." He winced. "I saw that," he muttered. "It made me glad that my own leg injury was nowhere near as bad."

"It did heal quite well," Gúthwyn said, "for which I am thankful. And you can run adequately enough on it," she added, thinking of their tag game.

"Adequately enough?" Tun raised his eyebrows. "I seem to recall catching you and Haiweth several times when we played tag."

Haiweth giggled at the memory, but Gúthwyn said mischievously, "That was only because we let you."

Tun gasped in mock horror. "You have insulted me, my lady! I must regain my honor."

Gúthwyn grinned impishly as an idea popped into her head. "I guess I can give you one last chance," she said slowly.

"And what might that be?" Tun questioned, smiling. "Another game?"

"Not quite," she smirked, and started backing away from him. "Try and catch me."

For a moment, he did not look as if he understood what she was saying; then his eyes widened.

"Well?" she asked, after a few seconds had gone by. A taunting grin was playing upon her lips as she moved even further away. "Are you too frightened? Or is it that deep inside, you know you are not capable of outrunning a woman?"

Haiweth chimed in, chanting, "Do it! Do it! Do it!"

Tun took a step towards Gúthwyn and then paused, clearly hindered by the standards that propriety and decorum decreed.

"Go on, lad," Gimli encouraged him. "Haiweth and I will watch."

It was all the goading Tun needed, and with that he sprang after Gúthwyn. He nearly reached her with the single leap, but just in time she darted out of the way. Peals of laughter escaped her as she tore down the Deeping Wall, lifting up the hem of her dress so that she did not trip on it. Because of this encumberment, she could not run as swiftly as she was normally able; even as she put more distance between them, he was only ten yards away.

As she raced into the fortress, several Dwarves that were inside stopped what they were doing and stared at her. She knew she must have been a sight to marvel at, with her long hair flying out behind her, her cheeks flushed a bright pink, and giggles pouring from her mouth, but she did not care.

The sound of his feet slapping at the ground behind her induced her to run faster, and she sped through the outer court with an agility she had rarely employed. Indeed, it was necessary: More than once, she had to swerve dangerously to avoid someone. She caught sight of Éomer's astonished face as she passed the table he was sitting at with Erkenbrand, but did not pause to explain.

Rather than go into the inner court, she instead dashed through a door that led into a maze of twisting passages. The ruse was not lost on her champion, and he pursued her relentlessly. A broad grin was on her face as she sprinted down a narrow hall, hoping that she would not get lost. Her sense of location was rapidly deteriorating, but as long as she could evade him, she did not need to know where she was.

He was steadily gaining on her, his longer legs having the mastery over her smaller ones. She could hear his rapid breathing as he chased her down another corridor; her own was similar. In hopes of throwing him off, she flung herself at a door to her left. Before he rounded the curve of the passage and saw her, she slipped inside, thinking that it would lead her to another hall.

Yet she soon realized that her directional capacities had failed her, and she had run right into a small room. Before she had time to even catch her breath, his footsteps sounded just outside the open door. The next instant, she felt two arms slip around her waist, drawing her backwards. As her back was pulled into a broad chest, Tun said triumphantly, "I caught you!"

Gúthwyn giggled nervously, trying not to concentrate how his hands were resting on her stomach. Knowing she had to admit defeat, she turned around in his arms, assuming that he would let go of her. But the seconds lengthened, and her hips were still pressed against his, their faces only inches apart. Two pairs of wide eyes stared into each other; she swallowed hard.

Then the moment passed, and he released her quickly. "I am so sorry, my lady," he murmured, looking mortified. "Please forgive me, I should not have—I did not mean to—"

"N-No, it is fine," Gúthwyn answered swiftly, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. She laughed a little; for it was a game, really, a game that they had been playing… just a game of tag. "Honestly."

_Yes, honestly,_ she told herself firmly, and smiled. Confident now, and not entirely sure what had happened anyway, she sought around for something to banish the awkward silence. "Well, you have won. My feet, it seems, have betrayed me."

Tun seized on the comment, and grinned as he responded, "And you thought I was only adequate enough."

She heaved a dramatic sigh. "I suppose that perhaps you are more than adequate."

"Oh, really?" Tun asked, arching an eyebrow. "Do I not get a reward for my victory, then?"

Gúthwyn pretended to think, and put a finger to her chin as if she were pondering something deeply. "Only this," she at length said. With that, she stood on her toes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. The skin that her lips touched against was flaming red by the time she lowered herself to the ground; she could not help but laugh at the sight.

Regaining his composure, Tun said, "You are too generous, my lady."

"Hardly," she answered amusedly, going to brush a stray strand of hair from her face.

"Here, let me," Tun spoke then, and before she could blink he had gently swept the lock away with his thumb.

Gúthwyn blushed. "If I am too generous," she said, "then you are too kind!"

He did not seem to know what to say, though his cheeks turned a remarkable shade of pink. After a minute or two, Gúthwyn cleared her throat. "Well," she began, "shall we retire for the evening?"


	35. Cloud Gazing

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirty-Five:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

It was late in the morning, with clear skies overhead and the sun just beginning to warm the roof of the Golden Hall, when Éomer Éadig, Lady Gúthwyn, and Lord Erkenbrand rode into the city of Edoras. As usual, a great throng of people met them at the gates and followed them to Meduseld, delighted to see their king and his sister once more.

Gúthwyn smiled in amusement at Haiweth, who was unused to such cheering and tended to presume that it was all for her. The child saw it as her duty to wave austerely back at the crowd, though a most un-queenly grin was on her face. Gúthwyn herself waved at the people, occasionally leaning over in her saddle to exchange a few words with them. The only person she did not see was Hildeth, who rarely condescended to welcome those entering the city and was likely doing some washing.

Glancing over at Tun, she saw that he was gazing around Edoras with a contented look on his face. She knew very well how he was feeling; her own return to Rohan had been similar. So overwhelmed with relief and excitement had she been that she could scarcely contain it.

"Are you at all nervous about meeting the queen?" she asked him, wondering what his thoughts would be on Lothíriel.

Tun shrugged. "I can only pray that I do not make a fool of myself, as I seem so adept at doing," he replied, and Gúthwyn laughed.

"You are not that clumsy," she said. "After all, I have never seen you fall off of your horse."

Smiling, Tun reached over and stroked his mare's mane. "That is because she has never let me!"

Gúthwyn looked down at her own horse, and was relieved to see that Heorot was showing no signs of discomfort, though he bore both her and Haiweth. _I need to see about getting the children horses—soon they will be too heavy to ride with me upon Heorot._

As they drew closer to the Golden Hall, she navigated Heorot beside Éomer. "Thank you so much for taking me," she said, a wide grin coming over her face. "I really enjoyed the trip."

"I am glad you did," Éomer replied, smiling to see her so happy. "And Haiweth seemed to have fun."

"Yes, she did," Gúthwyn confirmed, affectionately ruffling the girl's hair. "What of yourself? Did you find the repairs satisfactory?"

"More than I could have hoped for them to be," Éomer answered. "I had known that Gimli and his Dwarves were skilled, but their work surpassed even my wildest expectations."

"They were certainly grateful to you for allowing them to work in the Glittering Caves," Gúthwyn commented.

Éomer snorted. "Grateful? I do not doubt that there were some Dwarves I never saw because they refused to come into the light of day!"

Giggling, Gúthwyn said, "I do not understand their strange ways. Yet you yourself, brother, are sometimes like them. After all, you are not that far from a recluse either—aside from this trip, when was the last time you left your stuffy council chamber? I have not seen you on the training grounds for months!"

"I am most certainly _not_ a recluse," Éomer growled at her. "Nor have I hid myself from the sun. Lothíriel and I go walking quite frequently."

"Oh, _walking_," she said teasingly. "That is well, but I wager it is not enough to keep Gúthwinë from rusting!"

"I take excellent care of my sword, thank you very much," Éomer retorted.

"Yes, though it must be dying of boredom."

He reached over and whacked her on the arm. "If you ever find yourself running a kingdom, you can tell me how much free time you have."

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment they came to the bottom of the steps leading into the Golden Hall. Standing atop them was Lothíriel. The queen had been given a wide berth by all the servants, with the exception of her maid Nethiel, and was watching the two of them arguing with each other.

Éomer dismounted immediately, a broad smile on his face as he went to greet his wife. Gúthwyn did not want to disturb their reunion, so instead she gave orders for Firefoot to be fed and groomed properly. Her own horse was taken to the stables as well. Before Heorot left, she whispered in his ear a promise of carrots in the near future.

"Where are Hammel and Cobryn?" Haiweth inquired then, rising on her toes to peer out across the throng.

Tun came to stand beside them then, and with his height he was able to spot the boy. "He is next to that pillar with Cobryn."

The instant Gúthwyn's eyes fell on Hammel, she waved happily at him. He returned the gesture, smiling a little. Over his shoulder, Cobryn nodded at her, and then smirked at Tun.

Her champion's face flushed, but he determinedly avoided commenting. Instead, he looked to where Éomer and Lothíriel were speaking with each other. "The beauty of the queen exceeds the rumors," he said in awe.

"You should have seen the men when she first arrived," Gúthwyn remarked amusedly. "Most of them could not even remain upright on their feet."

"That may be so," Tun said, looking at her, "but I think that, for all her finery, you put her to shame whenever you smile."

She blushed furiously, and admonished him, "You need not say such things because you are my champion."

He was about to protest when Gúthwyn glanced over and saw that Éomer was beckoning to her. "Come on," she said, grinning, and took Tun's hand to drag him over to her brother. "You can defend my features later."

Followed by Haiweth, they made their way up the stairs to stand before the king and queen. Gúthwyn gave Lothíriel a cheery greeting, but it was only minimally reciprocated; rather, the queen's eyes lingered on Tun. "You are Gúthwyn's champion, correct?"

Tun nodded, and bowed as deeply as he might. "I was just telling her that your beauty is far greater than the words of my uncle have made it seem."

"Now, now, Tun," a deep voice boomed, and they turned to see Erkenbrand clap a hand on his nephew's shoulder, "I did my best to do her justice. Éomer, you are a lucky man."

"That I am," Éomer agreed, slipping his arm about Lothíriel's waist and drawing her closer to him. As usual, her cheeks turned pink. Yet her gaze flickered to Gúthwyn's hand, which Éomund's daughter realized belatedly was still holding her champion's. For some reason she felt guilty, as if she had committed a sin of sorts. Tun seemed to be of like mind: simultaneously, they let go of each other, and shifted awkwardly on their feet. There was an odd gleam in Lothíriel's eyes as she observed this. For a moment, it was to Gúthwyn as if she had just been manipulated, or that something had occurred to give the queen the advantage.

Yet the next instant, she mentally shook her hand. What advantage was there to be gotten? She was imagining things. Indeed, when she glanced at Lothíriel, the woman was smiling peacefully at Éomer, murmuring something in his ear. Her brother laughed a little, and then turned to Gúthwyn. "Now, sister," he began, "what was it that you were about to say to me before we dismounted?"

Gúthwyn thought for a moment, and then brightened. "Ah," she said. "I was wondering if I might coax you out onto the training grounds… I am looking for an easy win."

"That is rather presumptuous, do you not think?" Éomer asked, glaring at her as Tun and Erkenbrand chuckled.

"No," Gúthwyn replied mischievously. "After all, how many months has it been since you practiced? Your sword is likely gathering dust in its sheathe!"

"The fact that some of us do not train as obsessively as you do does not mean that we are any less capable with a blade," Éomer replied, rolling his eyes. "I would have little difficulty defending myself from you."

"Is that so?" She arched an eyebrow. "Care to prove your worth? It has been long since we have dueled. Framwine is itching for another victory."

"I won the last time," he muttered.

"No, actually, you did not," Gúthwyn corrected him, grinning because she knew she was right. "As a matter of fact, you fell rather spectacularly onto the ground and were unable to pick yourself up before I unhanded you."

Éomer winced as memories of that incident washed over him. "Then I suppose another fight is in due order," he agreed. "Yet this time, you will find yourself facing the steel of Gúthwinë, while Framwine hangs useless at your side."

"It is always good for a man to dream," Gúthwyn acknowledged, patting him on the shoulder.

Even he could not help but laugh. "So you say, sister," he said, smiling. "Let us see what happens when we put our swords to the test. Then we shall decide who is dreaming."

Gúthwyn beamed. "I am looking forward to it!"

He sighed amusedly. "I have always said that there is little I can deny you."

Was it Gúthwyn's imagination, or did Lothíriel's eyes narrow slightly? "And as I have always said, you are my favorite brother."

To that, he cuffed her on the head.

* * *

The next day, Gúthwyn and Haiweth were to be found lying on a stretch of green lawn next to the Golden Hall, gazing up at the sky and trying to interpret various shapes within the clouds.

"It is a butterfly," Haiweth decided, sticking an arm up into the air and pointing. "Can you tell?"

Gúthwyn squinted. "It looks more like an eagle," she replied. "And there—do you see?—it is a foal."

Frowning, Haiweth said stubbornly, "Butterflies are better."

A grin played on the corners of Gúthwyn's lips. Above her, the rolling clouds moved slowly across the sky, blending and merging to form fantastic new creatures. The eagle became a falcon, sweeping down to eat Haiweth's butterfly. Yet at the last instant, the butterfly floated out of the way, and the preying bird collided with a mass of white to emerge as an Ent.

"A flower!" Haiweth cried, shifting her attention to another corner of the horizon. "Look!"

Gúthwyn directed her gaze accordingly, and saw not a flower but a sword. Yet she nodded all the same.

"I wonder what color it would be if it was real," Haiweth mused, the tip of her tongue poking out between her lips in thought.

"Perhaps it would be the _simbelmynë_," Gúthwyn suggested, "or the _niphredil_ of Lothlórien."

A smile came to her face as she remembered Merry and Pippin showing her around the Golden Wood, and all the conversation they had entertained her with. High up in the blue expanse, the Ent shifted and morphed into a Hobbit.

Haiweth wrinkled her nose. "That would be too boring," she complained. "I think it would be red. Or yellow."

"A rose?" Gúthwyn asked.

"No, no," Haiweth said impatiently. "There are no thorns on it."

Obviously an amateur at the art of cloud-deciphering, Gúthwyn decided it would be better not to say anything at all. Instead she closed her eyes, listening to Haiweth's chatter with half an ear. The sun was warming her face, making the whole activity even more relaxing. For once, she was not cold; indeed, she had taken off her boots upon lying down, and was quite happy to feel the grass tickling her toes.

Her mind began drifting away from her body, allowing itself to wander over the plains of Rohan. Not even a horse was beneath her. Instead, she was being carried along with the wind, as light as a feather and as carefree as a newborn. The smells of spring, along with the faint whispers of an oncoming summer, were pleasant to behold, and she gave herself up to the rhythm of nature all around her.

How long she lay there, she did not know. But at length, something broke in through the shimmery haze with which she had surrounded herself. "Tun!"

Blearily, Gúthwyn struggled to open her eyes, wondering how on Middle-earth Haiweth could have seen him in the clouds. "What?" she murmured, stirring.

"Tun!" Haiweth repeated, pushing at her shoulder.

"My lady?"

Now her eyes were wide open, though only blue and white was in front of her. She turned towards the sound of her champion's voice, and saw him standing a couple of yards away from her and Haiweth. A lazy smile came to her face. "Hello, Tun," she said, lifting up a hand to wave at him.

Before Tun had a chance to respond, Haiweth said, "We are looking at clouds. I have already seen a butterfly, a flower, a dress, _and_ Hammel!"

Gúthwyn had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Hammel's mind was too firmly tied to the earth to let his body drift along with the clouds.

Tun, also, bit back a grin. "That is quite a record," he answered, coming closer and glancing up at the sky. "But I see a horse, and a helmet, and a spear."

"Boring," Haiweth declared again. She turned away, no longer interested.

"You do not have to stand," Gúthwyn addressed her champion. "Please, join us."

He hesitated for a moment, and then sat down about a foot away from her. Even though he was not wearing his guard uniform, and was instead garbed in a simple tunic and leggings, he looked rather uncomfortable. Giggling, she reached up and pulled him downwards. "If you lie down," she said as his back hit the grass, "it makes the clouds a lot easier to see."

Tun recovered from his awkwardness swiftly, and even put an arm jauntily around her shoulders. She smiled at this, and asked, "Now what shapes do you see?"

"The horse has become a knight," he responded, tracing the figure slowly.

"I can see a princess!" Haiweth chimed in eagerly. "Like Lothíriel. And the knight is going to save her!"

"Save her from what?" Gúthwyn asked interestedly, scanning the skies and not seeing a single threat.

"Well," Haiweth began authoritatively, pointing at a large cloud, "there is a monster—an evil dragon—and he is telling her that no one will help her, because she is worthless."

The word stirred up a brief chill in Gúthwyn, but she ignored it.

"And it takes many years," Haiweth continued; "yet at the end, the knight finds her and rescues her. Then, they live happily ever after."

"Do they have any children?" Gúthwyn wanted to know, assuming that part of "happily ever after" was marriage.

Haiweth shook her head. "No," she said simply, and that was the end of that.

Smiling, Gúthwyn ruffled the girl's hair. "Only you could imagine something so epic," she murmured.

"I am not sure…" Tun said. "Do you not think they would be more happy if they had children?"

"Well, they wanted to," Haiweth explained exasperatedly, as if he had asked a foolish question. "But they could not."

"And why is that?" Gúthwyn asked, wondering whether Haiweth knew anything about infertility.

"_Because_," Haiweth said, looking annoyed that they were questioning the logic of her tale.

Gúthwyn and Tun exchanged amused glances.

"Anyway," Haiweth added grumpily, "it did not really matter, because she loved another."

The plot thickened. Gúthwyn raised her eyebrows, but when Haiweth did not elaborate, she presumed the tale to have come to its end. "Well," she sighed, "I suppose not everything is perfect."

New colors were awakening within the sky now. A deep gold arrived first, darkening the belly of the foal and making the beak of a nearby bird glow. Then oranges and reds arrived, causing the entire sky to appear as if it were burning. Yet it was a pleasant fire, and Gúthwyn did not feel at all inclined to get up and move away from it.

Such was her contentment that she hardly noticed or thought of it when Tun took her hand.


	36. Growing Resentment

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirty-Six:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

By the time May rolled around, Gúthwyn could safely say that she was happier than she had ever been in her entire life. She and Tun spent nearly every minute of their days together, swiftly on their way to making up for all the time they had lost the year before. The children were healthy; Hammel was not being bullied so much, and had even been seen talking to some boys his own age; Haiweth's nightmares were plaguing her less and less, and her naturally sunny disposition always made Éomund's daughter smile.

Furthermore, no one had pressed the topic of marriage with her, and she contented herself in thinking that she had escaped it for the time being. Meanwhile, her correspondences with Éowyn and Elphir continued, and her own writing skills had improved because of it. To top it off, she was actually eating and sleeping normally, and had not vomited for weeks.

Yet there was one thing that lingered on the fringes of her mind: Lothíriel. She could not shake the impression that the queen disapproved of her. It was nothing she was ever able to place her finger on, and no words were spoken nor actions done against her, but she could still detect an inexplicable tension between them. Gúthwyn did not understand it in the least. She was in the company of Éomer whenever she was not with Tun, though from him she garnered no hint of an explanation regarding his wife's frostiness. Then again, she had diligently avoided mentioning the subject, as she had not wanted to seem as if she were accusing the queen of Rohan of inappropriate conduct.

Gúthwyn sighed a little as she sat on the landing of Meduseld. The wind responded by blowing it through her hair, momentarily sending the locks in all directions before bringing them back to their original position. Lothíriel was certainly a mystery to her, and it was unlikely that that was going to change. It pained her to know that she could not have a good relationship with her brother's wife—then again, she thought wryly, she was not exactly the best of friends with her sister's husband, either.

Her gaze turned towards the main street. There was much for her vision to be entertained with, as it was high noon and people were busy going about their daily lives. Half an eye she kept on Haiweth, who was playing tag with several other children. The rest of her concentration she spent on finding Hammel. He had been going outside just as she was walking into the throne room, and now she did not know where he had gone.

But within a moment she saw him. He was sitting on a large rock, a book wedged firmly beneath his nose and a hand placed over his eyes to protect them from the sun. Gúthwyn gave an exasperated sigh. The boy seemed determined to read every single book in Edoras before his thirteenth birthday, and from the looks of it, he was succeeding. It made her wonder just how often he devoted his time to something other than his studies. She was forced to admit that, in all actuality, she knew very little of how he spent his days. Trickles of guilt seeped through her at this acknowledgment.

However, at that moment he glanced up, and his eyes focused on something. Gúthwyn squinted, trying to determine what it was. The only thing she could see was a girl taking water from a well: Aldeth, the daughter of the blacksmith. She was about Hammel's age, maybe a year younger. The task at hand absorbed her so that she did not noticed Hammel's gaze on her.

Gúthwyn's curiosity was piqued, and she could not help but smile. For, thinking that no one was observing him, Hammel had let his guard down. It was more than idleness with which he was watching the girl; a softer look was in his face, one of tentative admiration. And when Aldeth turned around, and upon seeing Hammel waved to him, he lifted his hand and returned the gesture with a true smile.

This was all very intriguing to Gúthwyn, and she made a note to speak with the boy later on—or, if he would not tell her the nature of his interest in the blacksmith's daughter, then she would go to Cobryn. Yet before she had a chance to act on her decision, the doors leading into the Golden Hall opened. Lothíriel stepped outside, beautiful as always in a splendid white gown that perfectly accentuated her figure. In her grey dress, with her hair tangled from the wind and her fingernails dirty from an earlier ride, Gúthwyn felt vastly inferior.

"Good afternoon," Lothíriel said, her tone warm.

Blinking at this, Gúthwyn nevertheless smiled and rose to her feet: Lothíriel was not the type of person to sit down on the bare stone. "Good afternoon, my lady," she replied, and added a curtsy for extra measure.

Lothíriel laughed a little. "You need not address me so," was her answer. "Please, call me Lothíriel. After all, are we not kin now?"

This was indeed so. Relieved that she did not have to use the formalities—with Lothíriel, she could never tell what the queen's preference was, especially since it seemed to be tied to her mood—Gúthwyn said, "I hope your day has been well."

This was the type of conversation normally acted out between them, polite nothings that always had the same responses. At first, Gúthwyn had tried to find a way around this and break through the queen's frosty exterior, but when all her advances had failed she had simply given up. Now, however, it was not the case.

"I have been keeping myself occupied," Lothíriel said, "and now I have some free time on my hands. I was wondering if I could persuade you to join me on the training grounds."

Gúthwyn could not have been more surprised than if Lothíriel had suddenly announced that she wished to go roll around in a pile of mud. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. "E-Excuse me?" she asked, not wanting to sound rude, but utterly perplexed about the queen's request.

Lothíriel's sea-grey eyes fixed on her. "You do not wish to go?"

"No, that is not it," Gúthwyn hastily assured her. "It is just—I did not know—can you…" She trailed off, reluctant to continue. From what she had garnered of the queen, it would be difficult to suspect her formidable with a blade.

"I know how to wield a sword," Lothíriel said, somewhat coolly. "You do not have to worry about teaching a beginner."

To Gúthwyn, the words almost sounded like a challenge, and not one that was related to sword fighting. Bewildered, yet at the same time knowing it was better not to refuse, she nodded. "As you wish," she said, still confused. "Would you like to go now?"

"I cannot think of a better time," Lothíriel agreed, and was pleased once more.

Trying not to let her misgivings show, Gúthwyn said, "I will just need a moment to change. I am assuming that you do, as well…"

"Of course," Lothíriel answered. "Come, let us go inside."

Gúthwyn went to follow her, and as the doors were closing she inquired, "Do you have a sword?"

"My father gave me one many years ago," Lothíriel informed her. "I have put it to little use, but then again, he did not press me to."

Gúthwyn was about to say that there was no point in Imrahil giving her an expensive sword if he did not want her to practice with it, but then she reminded herself that the customs were different in Dol Amroth and that such a weapon had likely been made with the knowledge that it would someday be the property of Lothíriel's husband. Nevertheless, she barely managed to restrain herself from rolling her eyes.

They parted in the throne room, as their chambers were on different sides of Meduseld. Gúthwyn was about to go into the passage leading to hers when she was hailed by Cobryn, who had been sitting at a table with a scroll in front of him.

"Hello, my friend," she greeted him, and glanced over his shoulder at what he was reading. She groaned: It was an account of all the expenses of her brother's kingdom. "Must you be so engrossed in something so boring?"

He chuckled. "It is not as boring as you might think," he replied. "And I promised your brother that I would look these over and make sure that nothing is amiss."

"When are you not working?" she wondered aloud, making a face at him.

"When I am teaching Hammel," Cobryn promptly said.

"That does not count," she admonished him. "When was the last time you did something for yourself?"

"There are those who like keeping themselves busy with work," Cobryn said. "I am one such person."

She did not have a proper retort to say to that, but then he questioned, "Are you going to the training grounds?"

"Aye," she confirmed. "Lothíriel expressed an interest in dueling with me."

Cobryn's eyebrows rose up so far that they nearly disappeared into his hair. "She what?"

"She expressed an interest in dueling with me," Gúthwyn repeated.

"Why?" he wanted to know, narrowing his eyes in curiosity.

Gúthwyn shrugged. "I was surprised, as well. Perhaps she, too, has noticed that we are not yet close, and hopes to amend it?"

"Maybe…" he mused. "Well, I think I might watch the two of you. This could be… worthwhile, to say the least."

"Finally, an activity that does not involve your duties," she muttered. "Well, I need to change, so I shall meet you out there."

He nodded, and they went their separate ways. Less than five minutes later, Gúthwyn was back in the throne room, debating as to whether Lothíriel had gone outside already or was still changing. A moment afterwards, however, the queen arrived, wearing a riding dress. Gúthwyn winced, but as she was willing to bet that Lothíriel had never worn leggings in her life, she really could not have expected any better.

Taking a glance at the woman's sheathe, she saw that it was definitely not poor quality. Much work had been put into decorating the leather with ornate jewels and swirling inscriptions. Gúthwyn's was similar to it, though obviously not as expensive.

"Cobryn is going to be watching us," she informed the queen.

"Is he, now?" Lothíriel's eyes glinted. According to Éomer, his wife and his advisor enjoyed political rivalry within the council. They were both quick-witted, and excellent at verbal sparring. Nor was it easy to lie to them, as they were uncannily clever at detecting falsity. But for all of Lothíriel's education, she was at a disadvantage when it came to knowledge about the realm she had only just settled in; much to her frustration, she was unable to defeat Cobryn as she had so many others.

Gúthwyn wondered briefly what Lothíriel would say if she knew Cobryn had been a slave before an advisor, and then said, "Yes, he is. He thought such an exercise might be worthwhile."

Lothíriel nodded at this, and without another word the two of them left the hall. There was no sign of Éomer, though he had mentioned to Gúthwyn at lunch that he was going to be at the training grounds for much of the day. After their return from Helm's Deep, he had been spending more time there: Gúthwyn had thoroughly humiliated him in a duel the following week, and he was determined to not let such an incident happen again. He had since evened their score, much to his satisfaction.

As they made their way down the steps, Lothíriel inquired lightly, "How is your champion?"

"He is well," Gúthwyn replied, smiling at the thought of him. "And he is very glad to be home."

"To be with you, no doubt," Lothíriel said, and Gúthwyn flushed. This was not the first time the queen had alluded to an attraction between her and her friend.

Lothíriel saw the blush spread across the other woman's face, and pressed on. "This might seem bold of me to mention, but has he asked for your hand in marriage yet?"

Gúthwyn felt her cheeks turn red. "It is nothing like that," she quickly said, firmly shaking her head. "He is my champion, not my…"

"Lover?" Lothíriel suggested, arching an eyebrow.

"Right."

Lothíriel laughed a little, as if to dismiss the whole incident. "Well, it was what my mind jumped to, since I see you holding hands with him quite frequently, and you never do that with Cobryn."

Gúthwyn shrugged, growing increasingly more discomforted by the minute. "It is a different type of friendship," was her response. This, she thought, was true: There was a physical distance between her and Cobryn, a result of his knowledge about what Haldor had done to her and her knowledge of his former love. With Tun, there were no clouds on their companionship. He knew nothing of what had happened to her in the dark years of her captivity, and neither of them had any desire to change that. The present was what mattered, the moment that they had thrown themselves into.

She remained wrapped in her thoughts until they came to the training grounds, where immediately she was greeted by a dozen of the soldiers. Lothíriel, as a rule, was met less enthusiastically, as none of the men were entirely sure why she was there, and few of them were willing to question their queen.

"Is she here to watch?" Éothain muttered in Gúthwyn's ear after he had said hello to her.

Gúthwyn shook her head. "She and I will be sparring together," she answered.

Éothain's mouth dropped open in shock, but Gúthwyn merely smiled and went over to the other woman, who was standing quietly off to the side. Her eyes were slightly narrowed.

"Would you like a few minutes to practice first?" Gúthwyn inquired, unsure of how a person such as Lothíriel would train. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Éothain whispering to some of the soldiers.

"No, thank you," Lothíriel replied, her gaze darting around the scene as well. Gúthwyn quickly surveyed the warriors in search of Éomer, but did not see him. Cobryn was there, however, as well as Hammel; she waved to them, and they returned the gesture.

"Then let us begin," she at length said, and unsheathed her sword. Lothíriel followed suit, and a magnificently crafted blade was revealed. True to what the queen had said, it looked as if it had hardly been used. Gúthwyn saw that it had not been dulled at all, though she did not think Lothíriel would be able to hurt her with it.

Together, the two of them found a clear space, stepping over the puddles of mud until they found a dry patch of ground. It had rained the night before, and as a result the earth was damper than it normally was. Now and then, a particularly unlucky soldier would stumble and fall into the murky brown liquid, eliciting laughter from his companions.

"What is this?"

They turned to see Gamling looking amusedly at them. "Gúthwyn, is there a grievance between you and our queen?"

"No," Gúthwyn said. "Why?"

He snorted. "It seems has if you have a mind to humiliate her!"

"I am sure that will not be the case," Gúthwyn replied as the captain chuckled. Lothíriel's face was suddenly devoid of all expression.

"No offense meant, my lady," Gamling addressed Lothíriel, looking awkward for a bit, "but Gúthwyn here has been responsible for the deflation of many an ego."

"Yours included," Gúthwyn muttered. He mock-glared at her.

"My father used to say that about me," Lothíriel said, glancing at the other woman, "though my weapons were my words, not the steel which Gúthwyn has so often used to impress."

For a moment, Éomund's daughter felt as if she had been slighted in some way, but she could not understand why. Nor did Lothíriel's eyes reveal anything. Gamling seemed to sense something off, also, and shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

"Well," Gúthwyn said after a moment, mentally shaking her head, "shall we begin?"

Lothíriel nodded, and Gúthwyn moved so that she was standing opposite the queen. Gamling did not return to his partner; instead, he stood a few yards away from the women, intent on watching their practice. Lothíriel's gaze flickered onto him, and then settled back on Gúthwyn.

In response, Gúthwyn held up her sword, yet her mind was not entirely on the action. She now had a dilemma to solve, one that she had not thought of until Gamling had teased her about deflating egos: Should she let Lothíriel win, because the woman was her queen, or should she do what all the men knew her capable of doing and emerge the victor of the match?

_Well, _she thought, _let us see what Lothíriel's skill level is._

With that, she stepped forward, and rather than deliver a false strike as was her wont, she gave a direct blow to the queen's shoulder. Lothíriel parried it and returned with one of her own, swifter than Gúthwyn had expected. Yet she blocked the counter easily; from there, it was merely a whirlwind of blades. Very quickly, Gúthwyn discovered the truth in Elphir's words: Lothíriel's fighting style was more akin to that of a fencer's than a warrior's. The attacks she used were those that would be impressive in performances, where the participants took immense care to make sure that their "opponent" would not be killed.

Gúthwyn's problem was renewed in full force as a crowd started gathering around the two of them. While she was able to effortlessly fend off Lothíriel's attacks, she knew that if she put forth more strength the queen would not be able to do the same. It was not her wish to embarrass Lothíriel by beating her soundly, especially not in front of a people who had not completely embraced her rule.

This was evidenced by the way Gúthwyn heard herself being cheered enthusiastically by the majority of the men, while Lothíriel's name was only called occasionally. None of the soldiers seemed to know how to address the queen while she was sparring, and so tended not to do so at all—the ones brave enough to did it out of respect and deference, simply because she was their ruler and they were her subjects.

Nor did this go unnoticed by Lothíriel. Her eyes were narrowed, but Gúthwyn marked uneasily the brief, flickering shadow of hurt beneath their lids. She also observed the signs of fatigue beginning to appear: After nearly two minutes of their duel, her blocks were slower, and her breath was starting to come harder. Gúthwyn lowered her intensity accordingly, hoping that none of the men would say anything.

"Gúthwyn, what are you doing?" a voice shouted then. "Give us something to watch!"

She winced as she recognized the speaker to be Lebryn. Lothíriel's eyes widened, and with that simple action Gúthwyn felt as if invisible tables had been turned. She was the one in power now, the one who could either humiliate Lothíriel in front of a crowd of onlookers or save her dignity. The sensation disturbed her, and it was a troubled gaze that met the queen's as she blocked a strike. It came to her that Lothíriel was aware of this, also—the duel they were engaged in was only a shadow of the other Gúthwyn felt they were about to embark on.

_That is ridiculous,_ she told herself seconds later, as the moment passed and Lothíriel delivered a blow that sought to find purchase on her neck. Almost automatically, she parried it. _We have never so much as disagreed on what food should be served for dinner._

Nevertheless, a quick glance into the crowd revealed another factor in her decision regarding the outcome of their match: Éomer. He was watching them quietly, encouraging neither her nor his wife; indeed, he appeared half torn between laughter and alarm. _Do I really want to triumph over Lothíriel in front of everyone, including her husband?_ Gúthwyn asked herself, distinctly troubled.

Yet then, a different thought arose in her mind: _If I let her win, she will be able to tell, and will know that I did it because of charity._ Much like Gúthwyn herself, Lothíriel was a naturally proud woman, and would loathe the idea that someone pitied her.

If she wished to avert resentment, then, Gúthwyn had to win, but find a way to do it so that it did not seem effortless. It amazed her that such a simple duel would require so much thought. She never had these qualms when fighting with Éomer. However, there was a tension between her and Lothíriel that she could not describe. The woman's apparent disapproval of her was not something she wished to heighten.

All this passed through her mind while the crowd around them cheered—her name was repeated over and over, while Lothíriel's was only yelled once or twice—and she struggled to keep the match from becoming unbalanced. But she could tell that Lothíriel was reaching the end of her strength, try though she might to conceal it. _Perhaps if I win quickly,_ Gúthwyn thought, _and make it look as if it were a lucky strike, then she might not feel as if she lost so easily._

Once the idea had been planted in her mind, she decided to act swiftly upon it. Before Lothíriel knew what was happening, she gave a powerful slash towards the queen's shoulder. Though Lothíriel was able to meet it, her block was not strong enough to resist. It had been the hope of Gúthwyn to continue the stroke through until Framwine was resting on the woman's neck, thus ending the match, but to her horror something else entirely occurred.

Under the force of the blow, Lothíriel's arm swung downwards, setting her off-balance. Simultaneously, she leaned backwards to avoid the swinging sword. Her wide, panic-stricken eyes met Gúthwyn's just before she fell to the ground, landing hard on her bottom. To make the situation even worse, the fist curled around her blade shot out to break her fall, and with a loud _squelch_ disappeared into a mud puddle.

Even Éomer chuckled a little to see his wife in such an unladylike position. The rest of the men were less restrained in their laughter. It echoed throughout the clearing, causing Lothíriel's cheeks to turn a brilliant red. Gúthwyn could not help but smile as well. Yet as she leaned towards the queen and offered a helping hand, she made sure to say, "They are not making fun of you. I am so sorry—are you hurt?"

Lothíriel shook her head, though Gúthwyn felt worse when she saw the mortified expression in her eyes. "I am so sorry," she apologized again, and held out her hand once more. "I did not mean to—"

The queen rose to her feet, stumbling a little, but determinedly avoiding Gúthwyn's hand. Vainly, she tried to laugh the incident off. As Éomer approached them, still trying to stifle his amusement, she smiled thinly in an attempt to conceal the embarrassment hovering over her.

"Are you all right?" Éomer quickly asked, sensing her discomfort. "Are you hurt?"

"Oh, I am fine," Lothíriel replied airily, brushing away his concerns. Her blade was still dripping with mud; she did not seem to know what to do with it. "I suppose I just made a wonderful fool out of myself."

"Aye," Éomer agreed, leaning over and kissing her on the brow. "Out of morbid curiosity, what possessed you to take up the sword? I thought you might get hurt, or accidentally cut Gúthwyn—the blade is not even dulled, look."

Lothíriel glanced down at the steel, but it was so coated in mud that it was impossible to tell. Her face flushed as she realized the mistake of practicing with a sharp weapon.

"Lothíriel, I am so sorry," Gúthwyn said for the third time. "I did not mean to—I was just trying to…" She trailed off, realizing that if she continued she would be admitting that Lothíriel's loss was not an accident.

The queen fixed her with a shrewd gaze. "You were just trying to what?"

Gúthwyn flushed. "Nothing, really, I just thought…" Something in Lothíriel's eyes warned her to be cautious with her words. "I just wanted to end it, that was all."

"End it, you certainly did," Éomer laughed. "I must say, sister, even you have hardly defeated an opponent so soundly."

Éomund's daughter could not help but smile at the praise, but when she caught sight of Lothíriel's pale face she hastily swallowed her mirth. "Here, I can clean your sword, and I will do your laundry later," she offered, knowing that the back of Lothíriel's dress was likely covered in dirt.

"Do not trouble yourself," Lothíriel said coolly. "I will go inside and do it right now."

"Are you sure?" Gúthwyn asked hesitantly.

"Well, Éomer, do not overtax yourself," Lothíriel spoke, ignoring Gúthwyn's question.

Éomer nodded, and smiled fondly as he looked upon his wife. "Will you be all right by yourself?" he wanted to know. "Can I persuade you to come back out and watch?"

Lothíriel's expression softened a little as she shook her head. "I have a few things to do," was her answer.

"It is just you and I, brother," Gúthwyn commented as Lothíriel turned away. She tried not to cringe when she saw how the entire back had been browned by the dirt. Several of the men struggled to cover up their grins; many of them failed miserably. "Shall we duel?"

"After what you did to Lothíriel, I am not sure I want to," Éomer snickered, as they turned around to search for a mud-free patch of earth. He frowned a bit, however. "I hope she did not hurt herself."

"It was a mistake," Gúthwyn assured him. "I knew she was tiring, and I thought I would end it sooner than later. I did not think I struck her so hard, but she fell."

"I am not quite sure what was going through her mind…" Éomer spoke, shaking his head amusedly. "And to challenge you, of all people!"

Gúthwyn shrugged, not altogether sure why the queen had sought her out. "I think she might have been trying to be friendly…" she said slowly.

"Now, I think she may very well avoid you altogether," Éomer muttered in jest. "By the Valar, Gúthwyn."

Giggling, she lightly hit him across the shoulder. "Oh, be quiet!" she exclaimed.

Their banter continued, and neither of them marked how Lothíriel's back stiffened as the echoes of it drifted into her ears. Nor did they see how, for a precious instant, her eyes glistened with pain and embarrassment. And later, when the queen rejoined her husband for their evening meal, she said naught of the incident, and kept the growing resentment within her a closely guarded secret.

* * *

As the gathering darkness brought their duel to a halt, Gúthwyn and Éomer sheathed their swords and prepared to return inside. The latter was soon engaged in a conversation with Gamling about a recent skirmish, and Gúthwyn set about finding Cobryn. Surprisingly, he and Hammel had both stayed out on the training grounds the entire time, giving her the sneaking suspicion that her friend wanted to talk to her.

This proved to be true when the two of them approached her. Hammel gave a quiet greeting, which she returned happily before ruffling his hair. Cobryn, however, remained silent until Gúthwyn had finished asking the boy how his day was.

"Well," he said, once she had stopped chatting, "shall I congratulate you on your win?"

She had beaten Éomer a few times that day—though she had also lost an equal number of matches—but they both knew fully well which victory he was referring to. A flush crept over her cheeks.

"I feel horrible about that," she said, a wave of pity washing over her for the queen. "I did not want to humiliate her in front of everyone, yet in the end I did exactly what I tried not to."

"Unfortunately for you, it was rather obvious that you were toning down your skill level for her sake," he replied grimly.

Gúthwyn winced. "She knew it also, thanks to Lebryn."

Cobryn looked at her closely as they began making their way out of the training grounds. "It would have been better for you to end it sooner."

Frowning, Gúthwyn remembered something that had bothered her during the duel. "Cobryn," she began slowly, trying to figure out how to put into words the strange thoughts that had gone through her head. Yet she could not, save for this: "Do you think she dislikes me?"

Hammel glanced at her, but did not say anything.

"Why would she dislike you?" Cobryn asked, not seeming as if he were denying it.

"I… I am not sure," Gúthwyn admitted, turning things over in her mind. "It is just that… she appears to disapprove of me for some reason, and I fear that today only made me look worse in her eyes."

"She was not pleased, of that I can assure you," Cobryn responded. "The fact that hardly any of the men were cheering for her did not help matters, either—to say nothing of the mud."

Gúthwyn fell silent afterwards, and did not voice anymore of her concerns, but she could not help but think that nothing good would come out of the day's events.


	37. A Parting of Ways

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirty-Seven:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

_His sword glints in the sunlight;  
__Twirling, flashing, dancing.  
__A whisper in the wind,  
__A streak of rushing metal;  
__Yet it is not the beauty he seeks to destroy.  
__The warrior.  
__He sees the good in all things;  
__Living, dying, awake, asleep.  
__Kind and generous, unassuming and humble,  
__Willing to put himself in danger for those he loves;  
__Yet it is not in vain.  
__My brother._

A sigh escaped Gúthwyn, long and mournful. It dissipated into the air, lost amidst the cheerful civilians going about their business. They had plenty to be joyful about: Summer was upon them, the weather was perfect, and even in this early season the harvest was promising to be good. And so their faces were smiling, their hearts light, and no cloud soiled their futures.

In stark contrast to them was the sister of their king, clad as usual in a grey dress. No trace of happiness graced her features, nor did she stir as a playful breeze danced across her cheeks. Though the temperature was warm, she wore a dark cloak, wrapping it tightly around herself and occasionally breathing in its scent. Some of the people glanced at her as they walked by, but it was an unspoken sentiment that on the seventh of June, something had made their lady retreat into a deep sadness, and it was not in their place to interfere.

_Borogor,_ Gúthwyn thought listlessly, gazing out unseeingly across the lands. _I miss you more than you could ever know… the children wish you were here, as well—Haiweth is nearly nine now, and Hammel…_

She could not complete the sentence, even if it was in her mind. Her eyes welled up with tears unshed—not once had she cried for him, not in all the three years it had been since he had died—and she blinked rapidly to clear them away, not wanting the guards to see. They had been watching her concernedly ever since she stepped out onto the landing hours ago, silently and with a slump to her shoulders. Ceorl had gone over and inquired as to whether she was feeling well, but she had made some excuse about having a cold.

Éomer, too, had noticed her discontent, though had also been placated by her story. It was not uncommon for her to fall ill: Mordor had weakened her immune system, leaving her susceptible to whatever sickness was passing through Edoras. Hammel and Haiweth, luckily, had escaped this, though Hammel did occasionally get runny noses. Yet it was no disease that had brought her out here to sit, still as the subject of a painting, and reflect miserably on her life. It was because the one person who should have never left her side, the one person she had wholly relied on physically and mentally, was gone.

The book she held in her hands, now opening automatically to where "The Warrior" should have been, was one of the few things she had to remember him by. The cloak she wore was another; with a pang, she remembered him placing it gently on her shoulders whenever she got the chills. His pack, which she had kept hidden in her bottom drawer ever since her return home after the War of the Ring, was the last. Some of his scent had faded away, disturbing her because she was afraid that in time, she would even forget what he looked like.

_That will never happen,_ she told herself firmly, clutching Beregil's book tightly to her chest. _He is the one man I have ever loved—the only man I will ever love._

Nay, she would always be able to recall the sight of his warm brown eyes, the feel of his hand in hers, the sounds of their swords clashing and the fierce panting as they wrestled frantically with each other. But to have experienced the sensation of his lips pressed against hers; not when the flesh was lifeless, and the grief in her heart so overwhelming that it turned her numb. A lover's kiss, given as they lay under the stars at night, or on their wedding day…

_Stop tormenting yourself!_ she shouted angrily, drawing in a breath that was shaking from the lump in her throat. _He is no longer alive! He will never kiss you! He will never marry you! He will never father your children!_

Children. The thought occurred to her almost guiltily, and she shrank from it. To give birth to a son or a daughter was to have allowed someone the pleasure of her body—to have allowed someone to make love to her. Nausea swelled within her at the idea. After all that Haldor had done to her, she never wanted to be beneath an Elf or a man again. She never wanted to show herself so intimately to another, or spread her legs to accommodate the settling figure of a lover.

"Gúthwyn?"

She jumped nearly a foot in the air, terror flooding through her veins, before she realized that the speaker was Lothíriel. "H-Hello," she said cautiously, craning her neck to look up at the queen.

For a moment, Lothíriel did not speak, and Gúthwyn thought back on their recent interactions. After she had defeated the other woman on the training grounds, they had barely spoken to each other. It was not that they were avoiding conversation; yet, for one reason or another, their paths never seemed to cross anymore. Gúthwyn was still spending much of her time with Tun, whereas Lothíriel was either in her chambers gossiping with Nethiel or in council with Éomer's advisors. The only times they were in the same room together were during meals and whenever Gúthwyn was in the company of Éomer.

But even though they had rarely so much as discussed the weather, Gúthwyn was aware that the inexplicable tensions between them had not gone away. Lothíriel was frostier than usual to the children; even Haiweth, who had met hardly a soul who could resist her vivacious personality, was finding her efforts to be nice to the queen deterred. Hammel had long ago given up, and confided to her that he, also, had detected the lingering disapproval with which Lothíriel viewed them.

"May I ask what it is you are reading?"

Gúthwyn started, and then glanced at Beregil's book. "The Warrior" was in plain view. Hastily, she closed it, not wanting Lothíriel to see what she had not shown to even Cobryn or Éomer. "Ah…" she began, not sure of how to respond to the question satisfyingly enough without revealing the answer.

"Your diary?" Lothíriel inquired, leaning against a pillar as she spoke. Her eyes flicked around, as if searching for a quill. "I used to keep one myself, though I was long ago forced to give up the habit. There was simply no time. Yet I remember that I would write down everything… my hopes and dreams, the men I secretly (and often foolishly) admired from afar…"

Gúthwyn blinked, wondering at this sudden confidence. "That is nice," she said awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.

"You know," Lothíriel mused, sitting down beside Éomund's daughter gracefully, "I have been thinking about what some of the advisors have been discussing of late."

"What is that?" Gúthwyn questioned, as she was supposed to.

Lothíriel lowered her voice, and said, "Your marriage."

Alarm spread rapidly throughout Gúthwyn. She straightened, and demanded, "When did they start talking about this again?"

"Recently," Lothíriel answered with a wave of her hand, as if to say such details were not important. "But one thing that struck me as odd was that they were not approaching you about the subject. Surely you would like to partake in these meetings?"

"They are having meetings about it?" Gúthwyn asked, feeling the beginnings of panic worm their way into her. "Why has no one told me of this?"

"Oh, not whole meetings," Lothíriel assured her. "Just now and then, whenever there is a spare moment…"

"I do not wish to get married," Gúthwyn said bluntly.

For an instant, a look of surprise crossed Lothíriel's face, but she swiftly recovered. "Now, surely you do not mean that," she said, smiling indulgently. "There must be someone whom your heart has been turned to of late."

For half a second, the thought that Lothíriel knew who Borogor was raced through Gúthwyn's mind. Then she realized that not even Éomer knew his name, and that such fears were needless. "N-No, there is not," she replied hastily, stuttering somewhat on her words.

"I can see it in your eyes," Lothíriel said knowingly. Gúthwyn paled, and quickly looked away.

A hand was placed on her shoulder. Gúthwyn flinched, then stiffened as Lothíriel's quiet voice entered her ears. "Gúthwyn, I am only trying to help you," the queen said. "It matters not to me whom you love—I will not ridicule you for it. But since you have small desire to attend the councils, I might be able to suggest the man, and perhaps even turn the negotiations in his favor."

"There is no one," Gúthwyn responded, more vehemently than she had intended to. "I do not want to become a wife. Not now, not ever. Please, if you wish to help me, then tell them not to waste their breath on finding me a husband!"

Though her face was turned away from Lothíriel's, she could picture the queen's shocked expression. "But surely there has to be a man you watch from a distance, or whose presence makes your heart race even the tiniest bit? If you are afraid that Éomer will be angry with you—"

"Lothíriel," Gúthwyn interjected, curling one of her hands into a tight fist. This was too much. Out of all the days the queen could have approached her, it had to be on that of Borogor's death. "There is no one. I do not love anyone. If I did, Éomer's approval would only be a small factor in my decision to marry them. There is no one!"

A pause worked its way between them, until Lothíriel said, "Then, what of the children? Do you not think they deserve a father?"

"I have been raising them well enough on my own," Gúthwyn retorted sharply. "The answer to all of your questions is no. Please, I have no desire to discuss this!"

Abruptly, Lothíriel stood. "I shall tell them what you have told me," she said, her voice cold. "Though I do not think that will be enough to deter them, as only Éomer is even half listening to Cobryn." With that, she walked away, and Gúthwyn heard the shutting of the doors a few seconds afterwards. She flinched. It had not been her intention to lash out and anger the queen—she could understand why Lothíriel was frustrated, as she had only been trying to help. She had reached out with a kind offer and was met with a stubborn, outright refusal; yet what else could Gúthwyn have done?

She found herself repeating Lothíriel's words: _Only Éomer is even half listening to Cobryn._ Well, she knew now that Cobryn, at least, was adamant about keeping her wishes predominant. But it troubled her that Éomer still wanted her to get married. Did he not realize that she had no interest? Had she not told him so on countless occasions? However, the worst thing was that he was absolutely justified in wanting her to find a husband, and that according to society she was in the wrong. An unmarried woman who had two children… Even though they were not her own, it still appeared suspicious to the casual observer.

Sighing heavily, Gúthwyn wrapped her arms around her knees and drew them close to her chest. Horrible feelings of guilt worked their way through her as she thought of discussing marriage on the day that Borogor died. She had the strongest urge to apologize to him, though she had not encouraged Lothíriel in the least. _Why did you have to go?_ she wondered, for what must have been the hundredth time that day. _Why did you have to leave?_

"My lady?"

Startled, Gúthwyn glanced up to see Tun ascending the stairs. "Hello, Tun," she said quietly, giving him a sad smile.

He frowned. "Is everything all right?"

Gúthwyn nodded. "I am just a little tired," she replied. "It is nothing."

Her champion was silent for a moment, and in that time she noticed something off about him. He seemed strangely jittery: He kept shifting back and forth on his feet, and his eyes were darting around. Yet before she had a chance to inquire, he said, "I… I was wondering—ah, do you know where… where Éomer is?"

Slightly surprised, Gúthwyn nevertheless pointed at the doors. "He is inside, probably finishing his lunch."

"Thank you," Tun said, though he did not seem at all inclined to enter the Golden Hall.

"Do you have a message from Erkenbrand?" Gúthwyn asked, puzzling at this. "I can deliver it to him, if you would like."

"What? Oh, no, that is… that is fine. Excuse me," he said hastily, his face pale. With that, he made to go towards the doors. Yet she reached up and took his hand, stopping him.

"Are you feeling ill?" she asked concernedly.

"No, I am fine, thank you," he responded swiftly. "I am a little nervous, though." Then he flushed, as if he had not meant to let that fall from his lips.

"Éomer is no longer angry with you," Gúthwyn assured him. "I spoke to him about it awhile ago."

Indeed, she had, though there was something about her brother's answer that had been unusual. He had seemed rather subdued, and his voice had been weary as he told her that he did not have a grudge against her champion. However, Gúthwyn had attributed it to the fact that he was simply tired from all his work. She could only begin to imagine how much effort it took to manage a kingdom; she had barely lasted the months that he had been away on campaigns against the foes of King Elessar.

"He… he is not?" Tun questioned tentatively, a hopeful look flickering across his face.

"He is not," Gúthwyn confirmed, and this time her smile was wider.

"Thank you, my lady," Tun said. He let go of her hand and then walked to the doors. One of the guards, for reasons unbeknownst to Gúthwyn, smirked at him as he held them open.

Once her champion was out of sight, however, Gúthwyn's posture slumped, and she again wrapped herself in her gloomy thoughts. Her birthday was approaching soon; she was dreading it. Out of all the people she had met during her seven years as a thrall, only Borogor had known the significance of the thirteenth of June. He had been the only one to wish her a happy birthday, the only one who had done his best to make the day worthwhile for her.

Now, without him, Gúthwyn just wanted a pair of invisible hands to turn the clock of her life forward, so that she could skip her birthday entirely. Something was bound to happen to make it awful—last year, she had been in the midst of a fever, and spent the entire day throwing up uncontrollably. At least with Borogor, she had been able to lean on his shoulder, and feel the warmth of his body as he comforted her and held her against the reality of what Haldor had done to her. She almost would rather relive those memories than make new ones.

Her troubled gaze lifted from her knees, and wandered out to the main street of Edoras. Hammel and Haiweth were amongst the people somewhere, not knowing that this was the day Borogor had died. Well, Haiweth certainly did not—Hammel had likely put two and two together to figure it out long ago. Her thoughts drifted back to what Lothíriel had said: _What of the children? Do you not think they deserve a father?_

Tears swelled in her eyes. But for Faramir, they would have had a father: She had become the mother to them that no one else was, and how many times had Borogor watched over them while she was at Haldor's tent? More than she could begin to count, that was for certain. He had tended to Haiweth when she had been taken by a fever, Gúthwyn unable to watch over her due to exhaustion.

And now he was gone. Buried somewhere in Ithilien, never to see her or the children again. Gúthwyn could not stop her shoulders from shaking, but she determinedly kept her eyes dry. Sometimes it felt as if all the tears she had yet to spill for him were steadily building up, the amount growing by the day. But she could not bring herself to do it; her sadness was beyond crying, her grief too vast to adequately mourn him.

As she sat there, misery shrouding her so tightly that she could almost see its cloak, the sights before her became a mere blur, blending together until only Borogor was visible. There was another figure behind him. Beregil it was, smiling gently at her, the wounds she had last seen marring his body now completely healed. For what felt like years, she watched the brothers, unable to reach out and touch them but knowing that they were with her.

Then the sound of a door opening reverberated against the corners of her mind. She blinked. Borogor and Beregil vanished.

"Hello, my lady," she heard behind her.

Only somewhat disappointed, Gúthwyn turned around to see Tun. Contrary to his demeanor upon entering the Golden Hall, he was now smiling so broadly that it was as if there was no luckier man in the world than he.

"You seem happy," Gúthwyn commented, the corners of her mouth twitching. His gaiety was infectious, though she knew not what it was for.

"No words can describe it," he murmured, his eyes fixed on hers. "My lady, there are some things I must do—farewell!"

"Wait!" she called after him, as he made to go down the stairs. He paused, and looked back at her. "What did you and Éomer talk about?"

For a moment, he said nothing. His cheeks were flushed, and his breathing was coming quicker than usual. Then he grinned. "Everything," he said.

With that, he turned away, and hummed a little tune as he walked down the stairs.

* * *

That evening, Gúthwyn's chair at the dinner table was pulled out for her by none other than her champion. Éomer had invited Erkenbrand and Tun to dine with them, as he and the Marshal had been discussing the affairs of the Westfold until late in the evening. The servants had added the extra seats, and were now setting the food before them.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said as her chair was pushed in. She smiled a little at Tun, though her spirits were low and she did not have the heart for much conversation.

"It was my pleasure," Tun replied, and sat down beside her. Hammel and Haiweth were on her other side; across from her was Éomer. Completing the group were Lothíriel, Erkenbrand, and Cobryn.

"Sister, how are you feeling?"

Gúthwyn glanced up to see Éomer looking concernedly at her.

"Excuse me?" she asked, confused.

"You said that you had a cold," he explained, raising his eyebrows quizzically. "Is that not so now?"

"Oh, right," Gúthwyn said, remembering what she had told him. "My head is clearing up, thank you."

"That is good to know," he remarked in relief. "I would not want you getting sick like you did last year."

Gúthwyn winced. It had been the very same fever that had caused her to spend her birthday leaning over the chamber pot—for nearly two weeks, she had alternately battled the chills and a burning heat that made her whimper and moan in anguish. Luckily, it had only spread to Hammel in a mild form, and Haiweth had been unaffected by it.

Frowning, Tun asked, "That was on your birthday, was it not?"

She nodded, and responded with only the slightest trace of bitterness, "It was a wonderful day."

Cobryn's lips tugged upwards in a wry smile. "From what I have heard, you and your birthday do not share a tightly-knit friendship."

Gúthwyn shrugged, not wanting to admit how close to the mark he was.

"Erkenbrand, how fares your sister?" Lothíriel then inquired.

The Marshal answered her question to the best of his knowledge, and so the dinner began. Gúthwyn divided her time between talking to Tun and convincing Haiweth to eat her vegetables; both activities were a welcome diversion from her thoughts, which had haunted her relentlessly the entire day. She did not wish to remember Borogor now—she would not be able to conceal her misery from the others.

It seemed to take forever for the meal to end. Outwardly, she maintained a façade of normality, in that she spoke easily with her companions and laughed at many of the jokes. Yet her heart was not in the ordeal, and she longed for the opportunity to retreat to her bed so that she might put this day behind her. Disparagingly, it was far from over; nay, she was willing to bet everything she owned that the nightmares would hold her in a fierce grip tonight.

She shivered, trying not to think of the darkness, and for a long time she was quiet. Such was her thought that she almost did not notice Tun trying to get her attention. It was only when he put a gentle hand on her arm that she blinked, glanced up, and asked, "I am sorry, what were you saying?"

"I was wondering if I could convince you to go on a walk with me," her champion said quietly.

The request was unusual, and for a moment Gúthwyn puzzled over it. Then she nodded. "Of course."

Looking around her, she saw that those at the table had finished eating and were now entertaining themselves with light conversation and casual banter. Éomer was speaking with Erkenbrand; when there was a lull in their speech, Tun leaned forward and inquired, "My lord, may Gúthwyn and I take leave?"

Éomer's head swiveled towards them so fast that for an instant Gúthwyn thought his neck would snap. "What?"

"We will just be walking outside," Gúthwyn explained, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at his anxiety.

For a moment, her brother merely looked at her. Then he swallowed, his face suddenly wooden, and said gruffly, "As you wish."

Gúthwyn and Tun rose. "Behave," Éomund's daughter cautioned the children.

Haiweth made a face at the word, but Hammel merely nodded. His eyes flicked back and forth between her and her champion. "Have fun," he said.

She smiled a little, and turned away. Yet before she and Tun departed the hall, she caught a glimpse of Cobryn's face. He was watching the two of them intently, his eyes narrowed—in studiousness, not in anger. Something in his expression made her pause for a second; it was different, strange. But then Tun offered her his arm, and she was distracted by giving the automatic response of a giggling acceptance.

Once she and Tun had gone outside, Gúthwyn felt far more at ease than she had in the throne room. Despite the grim mood that had fallen over her, the sky above was perfectly clear, and the stars were sparkling as a multitude of jewels strewn across the velvety blackness. She heard herself sigh in contentment. "Where do you want to go?" she questioned absently. The arm that was linked with his was warm, comfortably so.

"Do you remember when you, Haiweth and I looked at the clouds?" he returned, glancing at her.

She nodded. "Aye." A lump formed in her throat, though she knew not why. "That was fun."

"Would you like to go there?"

Again, she nodded, and soon they were making their way around the Golden Hall. Though Gúthwyn knew it was not fair to Tun that her mind should be distracted so, she could not help but think of Borogor. He would have loved her home, of that she was certain. And how often had she thought that he and Éomer should have met? The two of them were so similar…

"How has your day been, my lady?"

Startled out of her thoughts, Gúthwyn said, "Well, I suppose." The reply did not seem adequate enough, and out of guilt for not paying as much attention to him as she should have, she inquired, "And what of you, Tun?"

They arrived at the clearing. She felt the grass brushing against the hemline of her dress, and on impulse hitched it up the slightest bit so that it could tickle the bare skin around her ankles.

Tun watched her with a faint smile on his face. "Not just today, either," she elaborated. "How have you been?"

"I have nothing to complain about," he replied. As she lowered her skirt, he took both of her hands. Something stirred in Gúthwyn's memory, a flash of swaying trees and rustling leaves, but just as quickly she buried it away. "I am able to put food on the table for my mother, and the two of us are healthy. I have a wonderful job, and the honor of being your champion."

"Oh, Tun," she said, smiling at him. It was chilly outside, though somehow their bodies had moved closer together so that she was not as cold as she might have been. Another recollection fluttered through her mind, of someone else before her and shifting on his feet…

_No, not now._

In an effort to forget—to forget what was never to be—she murmured, "It sounds as if you are missing nothing in your life."

"Well, my lady," he began, stumbling a little on his words. Up close, she thought his face was paling. "There is one thing."

Gúthwyn had not realized that the moon was shining down on them, but now she became aware that she could see her champion's face almost perfectly. "And what might that be?" she asked.

He drew nearer, so that she had to look up to gaze into his eyes. There was another whisper within her mind; something was different. A bird lifted its thin call into the air.

"I do not have a wife," he said.

Gúthwyn did not, could not, say anything as he leaned towards her. Numbly, she saw the space between their faces—their mouths—growing smaller. She did not step away from him. A part of her wanted to. The other half teetered on the brink of a new beginning, something that was hers if only she said the word. For she saw now, with stunning clarity, what she had been oblivious to before…

Tun's lips brushed gently across hers. She did not pull back. It was as if she were in a dream. His hands left hers, and slipped around her waist to bring her closer to him. Warmth flooded her body. She felt his tongue running tentatively along her lips, asking silently for permission. Her mouth opened of its own accord, and then he was inside of her. What a strange feeling it was… Half of her wanted to start over, to forget Mordor. To begin a new life, even with someone at her side. And Éomer always said that she should get married…

_Borogor._

Gúthwyn did not have the gift for seeing into the future, nor did any in her family. But in that moment, she saw herself on her wedding night, trembling in fear. She saw Tun doing everything he could to please her in bed, confused and worried by her lack of response. She saw him wondering why, on the seventh of June, she looked at him with guilt-filled eyes and whispered _Borogor_ in her sleep. She saw him trying to comfort her after her nightmares, not knowing why she cringed from his touch. For she could not tell him… and he would think that it was his fault. She saw them both spiraling downwards into depression and misery, Tun because his lady did not love him and she because she could not confide in him that which was crucial for him to understand her. And finally she saw herself, struggling uselessly to keep the tears from streaming down her cheeks. She was holding a small vial in her hands. Tun lay sleeping beside her, his breathing even. As Gúthwyn watched herself, the wretched version leaned over and kissed him on the brow. He did not wake. Then she glanced upwards, and in one quick gulp drank the entire bottle.

All of this went through Gúthwyn's mind in mere seconds. But in that time, she made her decision. She pulled away from him, swallowing hard. Tun stepped back as well, though his hands remained around her waist.

"My lady," he murmured, before she had a chance to speak. "I have loved you ever since you returned to Edoras."

He could not have said any words that would have affected her more, not if he had sat and thought about it for weeks. Gúthwyn froze, and felt something blur her vision so that her champion shimmered in a burning haze. "Two years?" she whispered. A series of memories swirled through her. He had wanted her to keep his cloak at Dunharrow… His anger and hurt when she had danced with Legolas… Éomer's fury with him over the sparring incident—by the Valar, how could she have let it go?—and how he had left, and now she knew why… Their tag game, and she had been caught, her waist pressed against his and wondering what was happening… Looking up at the clouds—he had even taken her hand—and lying so close to each other… All the moments that they had shared, how she had unconsciously encouraged him throughout the years…

And it was then that Gúthwyn realized that she loved her champion.

"Two years," Tun confirmed, and his hand reached up to hesitatingly touch the side of her face.

Tears began spilling down her cheeks. No matter how she felt towards Tun, she could not marry him. Her love for him paled in comparison to Borogor; she would not ask her champion to compete with a ghost from her past. She would not ask him to make her forget that there was someone buried in Ithilien who would have given everything for her, had she but requested it. It was unfair to him, and would only end in resentment, or worse—regret.

"Oh, Tun," she said, drawing a shaky breath. He was bewildered, unsure of why she was crying. This only made the tears fall faster. "Tun, I… I love you, but not… I cannot…" Her shoulders were heaving up and down, but she could not go to him for comfort. He went to hold her; she shook her head frantically. Her voice was remarkably steady, but she felt that if she had not been so close to him, she would have been unable to stand. "Tun, I cannot give you what it is you want. I cannot… I cannot love you as a woman should love her husband."

His face went white, his eyes wide. "My lady," he began, sounding as if he could barely speak. Heart-wrenching confusion was written across his features. "I… I do not understand."

Gúthwyn wept, hating herself for doing this, hating herself for denying him something that—for so long—he had desired with all his heart. "Tun, you are a w-wonderful man," she said, her breath hitching with each syllable. "Y-You are the sweetest person I know, and any woman would be lucky to marry you. But you deserve… you deserve better than me."

"My lady," Tun said quietly, "there is no one better than you—I do not…"

His words struck such a chord within her that it felt as if her heart would break from guilt and misery. "Tun, I-I cannot make you happy. Please, do not ask why. But I know that our marriage…" What had she done to merit this? Did the Valar think it was a cruel joke, that he should propose to her on the day of Borogor's death? Did they believe it amusing, to watch her reject an honest, decent man who had never done anything to her in his life?

Tun was staring at her, his back rigid in shocked disbelief. "Tun," she whispered, struggling to finish. "Our marriage would never work. I cannot do it. I will not."

"My lady," he said, and something shone in his eyes. "My lady, please…"

For the last time, Gúthwyn embraced him. She was sobbing now, for she knew that when she pulled away from him, a door would close forever. Their relationship would never be the same. And for the last time, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for being my champion."

"My lady—"

Gúthwyn let go of him. His gaze was full of a stunned hurt that she could hardly bear to look upon. The knowledge that she had brought it about tore at her heart, until she truly thought it was the worst thing she had ever done in her life.

"I-I am so sorry," she choked out, and turned away.

He made no move to follow her as she stumbled in the direction of the Golden Hall.


	38. Washing

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirty-Eight:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

Not long afterwards, Tun took to wife a woman named Brithwen. Gúthwyn saw him being introduced to her by Erkenbrand at a feast: the Marshal had been intent on finding some means of distracting his nephew from his lady. She watched without envy as her champion courted Brithwen, without remorse as they wedded, and without flinching as the woman emerged from their home the next morning with permanently glowing cheeks.

It made her glad that Tun had found someone, and there was no falsehood in that. The days after she had rejected him had been miserable; they had avoided each other out of awkwardness, unable to even speak without blushing terrifically. To make matters worse, the other guards had made fun of him relentlessly. She was treated more deferentially, as she was a lady, but he had endured countless heckling from the soldiers.

Loathing herself for causing her champion so much misery, Gúthwyn had literally worried herself sick over the matter. For nights she had lain awake without sleeping, imagining with a terrible guilt what she had put Tun through; she had barely eaten for days, unable to muster up the desire to. By the time her birthday rolled around, she was bedridden with a fever, one that was even worse than the year before. It was three weeks until she had the strength to walk again. For the vast majority of that time, she had been hunched over the chamber pot, throwing up whatever meager meal the anxious maids had forced her to consume.

Éomer had sat by her side whenever he was able to. Like the others, he had been shocked when Gúthwyn had staggered back into the Golden Hall on the night of the seventh of June, her eyes a swollen red color. He had stared, open-mouthed, when she had whispered hoarsely that she had just refused Tun's proposal. And he had been too stunned to say or do anything when she had run from the room, struggling to conceal a fresh onslaught of tears.

Yet they rarely, if ever, spoke of her champion, and for that she was grateful. She had told him the story, and though initially he had been incensed that Tun had kissed her, she had been adamant that the man would see no punishment for it. Afterwards, they had turned to other topics for conversation. She learned from him that he had granted permission for Gimli to start a colony in the Glittering Caves, where they would mine meticulously and provide Rohan with a sizeable portion of the profits.

Furthermore, Éomer had mentioned that King Elessar had traveled to Mordor, which meant that, assuming the negotiations went well, he would return in a few months' time. Gúthwyn was awaiting his letter somewhat nervously; she prayed that a suitable solution for the slaves and the remnants of Sauron's army would be reached. She thought also of Dîrbenn—had he survived the final battle before the gates of the Black Land? Or had he too perished, like so many of his comrades?

When at last Gúthwyn was able to rise from her bed, she did so with vigor, and was welcomed eagerly back into the social circles of Edoras. Her regular routine she resumed, waking up at noon only to head out to the training grounds. Haiweth's lessons had progressed remarkably well, so now Gúthwyn had elected to teach her the basics of running a household: Cleaning clothes, serving various dishes at meals, and sewing. The latter was a joke, as Éomund's daughter was laughable in the craft, but Haiweth seemed to take well enough to it, and soon surpassed her. In terms of the washing, Gúthwyn was able to take the girl with her whenever she brought her laundry down the street to speak with Hildeth.

As for Hammel, he continued to excel at his own studies, though was less successful with the sword. Cobryn had more than once remarked, with a trace of frustration in his words, that he simply did not put any effort into his techniques. This had made him no more likeable to the other boys, and as Rohan was plunged into a gloriously warm summer, he still had not gained more than a few friends.

Gúthwyn noticed that he persistently watched the blacksmith's daughter Aldeth, though he rarely worked up the courage to talk to her. Both she and Cobryn exchanged many a glance at this, wondering with some exasperation when the boy would ever express what appeared to be a growing love for her. At last, Gúthwyn had taken the initiative to probe him for information. He had grudgingly admitted that he was somewhat attracted to the blacksmith's daughter, but was quick to point out that she barely even knew what he looked like, and, at best, thought him only a friend.

To this, Gúthwyn could only give him mild encouragement, hoping that in time he would overcome his inhibitions about approaching Aldeth. Yet always in the back of her mind was the memory of what had happened when Tun had mustered the bravery to declare his love to her. She did not want the same to befall Hammel. Besides, he was only eleven—there was plenty of time ahead of him in which he could lose interest in Aldeth.

"I highly doubt he will," Hildeth remarked when she confided in her on the matter. "Yet neither will he do anything, unless someone nudges him in the right direction."

Gúthwyn sighed a little, pushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Then she turned her attentions back to Hammel's shirt. It was dirty from practice: he had fallen on the ground when sparring with someone.

"He is so secretive," she muttered, lowering her voice so that Haiweth, who was only a few feet away and concentrating diligently on her own washing, could not hear. "I sometimes feel as if I know naught of what goes on inside his mind."

"Well, that is a smart child, make no mistake about that," Hildeth replied, wringing out a tunic. "If I have said it once, I have said it a thousand times: There is far more to him than meets the eye. You make sure that your friend is keeping close watch on him, now."

"He is," Gúthwyn promised, smiling at the mention of Cobryn. He was one of the few people who had not teased her about Tun, though he had made a point of telling her that she had shocked him with her refusal.

"My lady," one of the other women said, pausing in her task to glance at her. She was the wife of a Rider, and her dress was stretching tightly over a rounded stomach. "Last night, my husband and I were talking about you."

"You were?" Gúthwyn asked, looking at the woman. She grinned. "I hope you were saying good things."

"Of course, my lady," Wífled assured her hastily. "But we were wondering if you had yet given thought to marriage, now that Tun…"

A faint murmur swelled up amongst the wives and maidens.

"Well," Wífled said, her cheeks flushing a little as Gúthwyn's eyes widened, "now that you have gotten one offer, it seems as if there may be more to come."

"Oh, nonsense," Hildeth retorted crossly. "Look at her! She hardly weighs more than Haiweth."

The child started, having been absorbed in the exercise of thoroughly rinsing an undergarment.

"Pay no heed," Gúthwyn said kindly to her, though she could feel her face heating.

"I think you could stand to gain several pounds before you marry and start wanting to have children," Hildeth muttered.

"Now, Hildeth, you are always so pessimistic," Wífled admonished. "My lady, how old are you?"

"Twenty-two," Gúthwyn answered, setting Hammel's shirt to dry on the side of her washing basin.

"There you are," Wífled said triumphantly. "I was married and several months pregnant at your age. Your brother, I deem, is doing you a great disservice in not announcing your eligibility."

The other women around them, with the exception of Hildeth, voiced their assent.

Firmly, Gúthwyn shook her head. "The longer he delays, the better. I am not looking forward to having to endure suitors that seek me only for the purpose of their own gain."

"Yet, just imagine," Mildwen said dreamily. "Being courted by dashing princes—such as Elphir, you did seem to get on with him well—left and right! Why, anyone would give an arm to be in your position!"

Gúthwyn snorted, in spite of herself. "There are better things to give an arm for," she responded, and thought with a pang of Lebryn. His arm had been lost in a Warg stampede, similar to the one that had ended in Chalibeth's death and her confinement in the cage.

At the memory, she swayed, and for a moment the world spun around her. When she regained control of herself, Hildeth was narrowing her eyes at her. "Child, you need to eat more," she commented sharply.

"She is not a child," Wífled retorted. "And you are certainly not her mother."

There was a brief pause, in which the other women glanced uneasily at each other. Wífled quickly realized what she had said, and swiftly apologized. "I am sorry, my lady, I did not mean to—"

"It is all right," Gúthwyn said, waving away her concerns. "Thank you." In truth, she hardly remembered Théodwyn. A brief flash, perhaps, of golden hair, and the feeling of sitting on someone's lap and hearing their laughter… That was all.

Haiweth looked up at her with wide, surprised eyes. "Gúthwyn," she began very seriously, "where is your mother?" For the first time, the child was contemplating that the person who had taken care of her for six years actually had parents.

Gúthwyn smiled in spite of the situation, and wiped her wet hand before reaching out to ruffle Haiweth's hair. "She passed on, little one. Many years ago."

"Oh," Haiweth said, glancing down at her small basin. "Like Mama."

"Yes," Gúthwyn replied, her tone now somber. "Like her."

At that moment, Brytta happened to look beyond their circle into the main street. "Well, girls," she remarked with a wry smile, "there is something to feast your eyes upon."

Accordingly, the maidens burst into giggles. Some of the younger royal guards were making their way down the street. Most of them were unmarried, and wasted no time in directing their gazes over to the blushing girls. Some of them smiled, and one waved. The woman to whom the gesture was aimed soon found herself the object of several envious stares.

Gúthwyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and was about to return to the washing when she caught sight of Tun. He had been at the back of the group, talking with a friend, but when he glanced over and saw her he froze for an instant. She, too, felt her breath catch in her throat. A thousand emotions ran through her at once as she recalled that night, and she saw them written across his face. He did not try to conceal them.

And then he swallowed. There was a nod, one that she returned automatically. Then he wrenched his eyes away, and continued down the road. Gúthwyn looked down, and bent her hands to the wringing out of Hammel's leggings.

Wífled sighed. "My lady, I still do not understand how you could have refused him."

Once more, the conversation was brought back to the very topic that she had sought to avoid for what felt like years.

Gúthwyn did not answer her, but then Brytta said sagely, "You know what they say: There are other horses in the field. I suspect that when she falls in love, it will not be long until she is happily married."

_If only that were so,_ Gúthwyn thought bitterly. Her hands rested lightly on the water, as if it were a mirror that she could look into and see Borogor. Yet it was just her reflection, warped and rippling in the dirty liquid. She sighed.

"That shall not be so difficult," Mildwen replied. "There are plenty of fine, single men living in Edoras. Most of them would need only the slightest encouragement to ask for the lady's hand."

Gúthwyn closed her eyes briefly, trying not to think of how she had unknowingly helped to build the fires of Tun's attraction to her.

"Speaking of fine, single men," Wífled said, "there is your brother, Brytta."

Elfhelm the Marshal was approaching them, a smile on his face. He had just returned from his duties in the east of Rohan; Éomer had given him a welcoming feast the night before.

"Now, that is a handsome piece of flesh," Wífled whispered, leaning over to Éomund's daughter so that only she could hear. "As is his stipend."

"Wífled!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, mildly appalled. "It is not a man's pay that should make him more endearing to my heart!"

The other woman appeared unabashed. "Yet it will make your brother more likely to approve of him."

"He is twenty years older than me!" Gúthwyn hissed.

Wífled opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment Elfhelm joined the group. "Good afternoon, ladies," he said, and leaned over to kiss Brytta on the brow. "Hello, sister. I hope Heahtor has not soiled too many clothes."

Brytta sighed in exasperation. "I swear, he crawls his way around the city rather than walks! Look at this!"

She held up the shirt for inspection. It was positively covered in dirt; all of the women winced sympathetically.

"I am glad Hammel is not so messy," Gúthwyn commented in an undertone to Haiweth.

"Hammel never does anything," Haiweth complained, and splashed at the water in irritation.

The noise caught Elfhelm's attention, and he glanced over to see the two of them. He smiled, greeted Haiweth, and then said to Gúthwyn, "My lady, what a surprise to see you here. Are you sure you were not looking for the training grounds, and wandered in the wrong direction?"

Gúthwyn made a face at him. "I am teaching Haiweth how to do some household tasks."

Snorting, Elfhelm replied, "A fine role model you must be. When are we to expect the honor of instructing Haiweth on how to use a sword?"

Haiweth wrinkled her nose. "I do not want to fight," she informed the Marshal. "It is too dirty."

Elfhelm laughed at this, and said, "I would never have suspected that any child under Gúthwyn's wing would choose a bar of soap over a sword! What is the world coming to?"

"Neither she nor Hammel have much interest," Gúthwyn admitted. "A grievance to me, though I will not push them into something they do not wish to do."

"At any rate, one woman on the training grounds is enough," Elfhelm said. "It is quite humiliating to lose to you, in case you have not noticed."

"And why is that, Elfhelm?" she teased him, grinning. "Is it because your skills are woefully lacking?"

Mildwen gave an admiring gasp, that her lady should be so daring as to insult the Marshal of the East-mark.

The maligned glared at Gúthwyn. "If you were not behind that washing basin…" he threatened.

"As if you could hurt me," she retorted with a grin. "Besides, Éomer would have your head cut off, and hung on a post as a warning."

"Aye, that he would," Elfhelm conceded ruefully. "I suppose I shall have to content myself with challenging you to a duel."

Gúthwyn beamed. "Name the day."

"I will look for you tomorrow," he promised.

Some of the maids burst into giggles at this, and had to duck out of the circle to stem their laughter. Elfhelm chuckled a little before bidding them farewell, telling them that he would have stayed longer had his duties permitted it. Brytta smiled fondly at him, returning to the washing only once he had passed out of sight.

Gúthwyn found herself facing an onslaught of accusations.

"He could barely keep his eyes off of you!"

"He spoke to you even more than his own sister!"

"He may be twenty years older than you, but I will wager that you would still find his performance quite satisfactory."

Scandalized gasps echoed throughout the circle, and Brytta said sharply, "Wífled, curb your tongue! This is my brother you speak so freely of! And do not forget that there is a child present!"

Wífled did not look the least bit apologetic, though Gúthwyn's cheeks were burning with humiliation. "Wífled," she whispered, feeling nausea coil at the pit of her stomach. "Please, stop."

The woman took one look at her face and was quelled. "I am sorry, my lady," she said. "I should not have been so forward."

"Now look at what you have done," Hildeth scolded her. "You and your sharp mouth!"

"Yours is hardly better!"

Their squabbling grew more distant as Gúthwyn stood there, her hands dripping with water and soap and her body filled with horrible sensations. Haldor was upon her, his hot breath on her skin and the smell of his body in the air. She was crying out, begging for him to stop, but he merely pinned her to the bed and pushed harder… The mutterings, the terrible words—_you are a whore… you wanted this, do not pretend you did not think of it when you saw me for the first time… you brought this upon yourself, it is your fault, do not deny it_—all the tears that she was not allowed to cry… And the pain, the disgrace, magnified with each movement and each muffled groan…

All of a sudden, Gúthwyn knew that if she did not leave, if she did not get out of the circle _now,_ she would throw up. "Haiweth," she choked out, motioning at the girl. "Haiweth, gather your things."

Hastily, she began throwing clothes into her laundry basket, not caring that some of them were still wet. Haiweth looked indignant.

"Gúthwyn!" she protested. "I am not done!"

"We will finish later," Gúthwyn said shortly, feeling as if she could hardly breathe. "Come!"

Haiweth scowled, and flung her garments into her own carrier. No sooner had she picked the container up than Gúthwyn strode forward, clutching at her stomach with one hand and balancing the basket on her hip with the other.

"My lady," Mildwen said concernedly, "are you all right?"

"Fine," Gúthwyn managed, inhaling and exhaling rapidly. "Something I forgot to do…"

With that, she left the women, though not before Hildeth's keen eyes met hers. Haiweth kept up a steady stream of complaints as they walked up the main street, but while Gúthwyn felt marginally guilty for making the girl leave so abruptly, she was concentrating on not vomiting. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably; panic wormed its way through her. She kept her eyes fixed on the road and tried to count the cobblestones, boots, livestock—anything to distract her mind from Haldor.

Gradually, she began calming down. The nausea retreated, though the feeling of unease in her belly reminded her that it could return at any time. Haldor was starting to fade, his grip on her wrists loosening.

"Gúthwyn!"

The near-screech from Haiweth brought her back to her senses. She looked over to see the girl glaring at her. "You are not listening to me!" she cried angrily.

"My apologies," Gúthwyn said wearily. "What were you saying?"

"Why did you make us leave?" Haiweth demanded. "I was only halfway done!"

They had now come to the top of the stairs, and were about to enter the Golden Hall. Yet Gúthwyn sighed, and held her hand up to prevent the guards from opening the doors. The basket was beginning to weigh heavily on her hip, so she set it down and waited until Haiweth had done the same, albeit grudgingly.

"Little one," she said, lowering her voice so that the sentinels could not hear, "I am sorry. But you must understand…" She swallowed, and Haiweth's stormy eyes blinked. "Sometimes, I feel ill, and I have to… to go somewhere else to get better."

Haiweth looked at her dubiously. "Why?" she wanted to know.

"I cannot tell you, little one," Gúthwyn replied, putting a hand on her shoulder. "When you are older… perhaps you will understand."

A frown crossed the girl's face. "I am never old enough!" she complained.

Gúthwyn smiled. "One day, you will be. And you might even be taller than I."

At just a couple inches over five feet, she was not growing anymore; yet Hammel would soon surpass her, and the children's parents had been of a good height.

Haiweth's eyes widened at the thought of being bigger than Gúthwyn. "That is not possible!"

"Well, look at Hammel," Gúthwyn replied, bending down to pick up her basket. Haiweth followed suit. "Soon, I will be looking up to him. You are not that far behind."

It was true: Haiweth's head was already past her shoulders, and she still had much growing to do. Pursing her lips thoughtfully, the girl conceded with an impish grin, "Maybe! How tall do you think I could be?"

"A few inches higher than me, if you are lucky," Gúthwyn answered. "Though, if you are too tall, then it will be difficult to find a husband!" She ignored the pang in her chest as she said this.

Haiweth stuck out her tongue in distaste. "Boys have germs. And they are always dirty!"

Gúthwyn could not help but laugh at this, and as she and Haiweth made their way into Meduseld, she felt her spirits lifting.


	39. The Proposal of Elfhelm

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Thirty-Nine:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

Despite what Gúthwyn told the maids about Elfhelm's lack of interest in her, she could not help noticing that she saw the Marshal with great frequency over the next couple of months. At first, they merely ran into each other: Haiweth and Heahtor were close friends, and they often watched over the children together. Furthermore, it was not uncommon that they sparred on the training grounds, so it did not seem odd to Gúthwyn that she was in his presence at least once a day.

Yet soon she started detecting something different about their friendship. He teased her less, and spoke kindly about her prowess with a sword and her appearance. Several times he surprised her by asking her to accompany him on walks along the main street. Gúthwyn granted his requests, not wishing to deny him something so trivial, but as he paid more and more attention to her, she could not help but feel awkward.

On one such occasion, as they were strolling down the road, he remarked, "That dress looks wonderful on you."

Gúthwyn flushed, and looked down at the garment in question. Éomer had recently bought it for her, saying that it was about time she expanded her wardrobe. Despite her protestations, he had insisted on a color other than grey or green—and had decided on what must have been a terribly expensive light blue. The cloth had come from Dol Amroth, as it was rarely found in Rohan. She was wearing it now because Éomer would soon be hosting a formal dinner for all his advisors and captains: They had been in council nearly all day within the Golden Hall.

"Thank you," she said, somewhat uncomfortably. She was not used to hearing compliments about her appearance from someone other than Tun or Éomer—long ago, she had come to terms with the fact that she was not strikingly gorgeous, even if she was not unpleasant to look upon. Yet Lothíriel remained the most beautiful woman in all of Edoras, and before her it had been Éowyn.

Feeling that she should add something to the conversation, rather than demurely receive the Marshal's unsettling flattery, Gúthwyn inquired, "How are things in the Eastfold, my lord? It has been long since you journeyed there—does that mean that all goes well?"

"Indeed, that is true," Elfhelm replied. "We still have to rely on the Westfold for much of our food, but the people have been able to grow a few crops, and the winter will not be harsh on us."

Gúthwyn smiled. "And what of Aldburg? Are you finding the fortress suitable?"

Aldburg meant "Old Fortress," and was the place where she herself had once dwelt. It was located in the Folde, the northern portion of the Eastfold, and was where the Third Marshal of the Mark had made his residence. Her father had held that position, and as a result she had lived there for the first three years of her life. When her parents had perished, she and her siblings had relocated to Meduseld. Yet in the years leading up to the War of the Ring, Éomer had returned to the place of his birth, and had gathered his forces from there.

"It is an excellent home," Elfhelm agreed, "although sometimes it is lonely."

Gúthwyn glanced at him in surprise. "Can you not convince some family members to visit you?"

Elfhelm shrugged. "Many do not wish to travel so far, and I cannot blame them."

"Well, you are not so old that you cannot seek a wife," Gúthwyn teased him. "You have some breath in you yet."

"Thank you for your vote of confidence," he growled at her, and she giggled. "I noticed that you do not have a spouse, either."

She swallowed, trying to ignore the painful memories, and said, "No, I do not."

Elfhelm looked at her for another moment. There was something in his gaze that she blushed at, though the next instant she thought she had imagined it, for he was smiling again. "What say you to going back inside?" he asked. "Dinner will likely be served soon."

Gúthwyn agreed to this, and they began making their way back up to the Golden Hall. As they walked, it did not escape her observation that Elfhelm's eye was often on her. She did not know what to say, or if indeed she should even comment. It had become increasingly clear in the past couple of weeks that he was seeking her out more than others, and it was not because of friendship.

Once, she had spoken of this to Cobryn, and had received a most alarming answer: That the Marshal was, to some degree, courting her. However, her friend was swift to add, he was so mindful of her position that he was not attempting to overtly "woo" her—rather, he was so discreet about it that she sometimes did not even notice. But as it became more obvious that this was the case, she found herself struggling with what to do: Should she speak of the matter to him, and discourage his efforts? Or should she wait and see if he went further, even if he asked for her hand in marriage?

_Who says he will even ask?_ she questioned herself as they neared the stairs. _He might have no intention of marrying you, and would think you arrogant and conceited if you mentioned it to him._

She was distracted then by him holding the door open for her, and thanked him as she stepped inside. The other advisors were already there, as well as Erkenbrand, Gamling, and various officers of the Mark. They were milling about in the hall; presiding over the situation were Éomer and Lothíriel, talking to each other quietly on their throne.

Elfhelm bid her farewell, and left to speak with Erkenbrand. Slightly relieved that she would no longer have to endure the discomfort of their walk, Gúthwyn went to find Cobryn. She had left the children with him, and did not wish for him to take care of them any longer than he had to—there were enough duties that he occupied himself with.

He saw her when she was a few yards away, and lifted his hand to wave her over. "Hello, my friend," she greeted him, and then nodded at Aldor, whom he had been conversing with. A quick glance around showed that the children were nowhere in sight.

In answer to her unspoken question, Cobryn said, "They are changing into more suitable clothes."

"Thank you," she replied, and reflected that she would do well to better prepare herself for the evening—her hair was tousled from the wind, and a coronet that she had been planning on wearing was still in one of her drawers.

Before she could announce her intention to go to her chambers, Cobryn asked, "Was that Elfhelm you were walking with?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn answered, knowing fully well that he had already seen the two of them.

Aldor looked at her appraisingly. "It is about time," he muttered.

Gúthwyn chose to ignore that comment. The older advisor had made no secret that he wanted to see her married before the year was out, and had always been one of the fiercest advocates for a match between her and some high-ranking noble. He argued that she was young, thus able to bear children and please her husband, and certainly well-liked by all the men. Knowing her reluctance to even consider the matter, Cobryn had always opposed him, countering with whatever holes in Aldor's designs he could find.

As she took her leave of the two men, Gúthwyn took a deep breath. It seemed that now, no matter where she went, she could not rid herself of the subject—marriage. Though Éomer treated the topic delicately, and rarely spoke of it to her, others (namely the maids and advisors such as Aldor) were far less tactful. The incident with Tun had certainly not helped the issue. Many whispered that she was waiting for someone else to propose, a specific someone.

Sighing somewhat, Gúthwyn continued down the passage, only stopping to look briefly into Hammel and Haiweth's room. They were still getting ready, so she promised to come back later and collect them.

"My lady?"

The voice met her ears just as she was closing the children's door. "Yes?" Gúthwyn asked, turning to see Elflede in front of her.

"Would you like help with your hair?"

Laughing, Gúthwyn inquired, "Is it that bad?"

"Oh, no," Elflede quickly said, her cheeks turning pink with mortification. "I did not mean—I just thought—"

"I know,' Gúthwyn said with a smile. "I would appreciate the help, thank you."

As if on cue, Cwene and Mildwen rounded the corner. "Excellent," Cwene replied briskly, not even bothering to pretend that she had not overheard their conversation. "Get in front of that mirror, child."

Gúthwyn groaned, but allowed herself to be ushered into her chambers. "I hope this is not like the last time," she muttered under her breath. She had made the mistake of permitting Cwene to brush her hair for Éomer's wedding—if she looked at her scalp, she did not doubt that it would still be red from all of the tugging.

"Nonsense," Cwene said, going over to her dresser and taking out the comb. "Your hair looked wonderful."

"I think I need to get a few inches cut off," Gúthwyn commented, glancing at herself in the mirror. Her hair was just about down to her waist; soon, she would be able to sit on it.

"I like it long," Mildwen piped up, shaking her head. "Even Lothíriel's is shorter!"

"Then that is the one thing, appearance-wise, that I have beaten her in," Gúthwyn replied with a faint grin.

Cwene set to work with the brush, and with a particularly sharp yank, said sternly, "Do not be ridiculous. You both look wonderful, no matter what the circumstance may be. And I do not think I am alone in that regard."

Something in the woman's voice made Gúthwyn ask, "What do you mean?"

Cwene was silent, but Elflede slyly murmured, "The Marshal Elfhelm seems to have noticed that you are unmarried."

Mildwen burst into giggles, and had to put a hand over her mouth to stifle them. Gúthwyn flushed.

"It is nothing like that," she said, trying to defend the man, even though she was positive it was otherwise. "He is simply—"

"Do not try to fool us," Cwene cut her off. "He has never paid this much attention to you before, even though the two of you have always gotten along well. But now that Tun is no longer seeking for your hand, like as not he has seen a window of opportunity."

Gúthwyn inwardly winced at the mention of her champion, and then outwardly so as Cwene gave a strong tug.

"My lady, what will you do if he speaks to Éomer about a marriage? Will you agree?" Elflede wanted to know, looking at Gúthwyn with undisguised curiosity. "He is certainly handsome, and very highly ranked."

Gúthwyn longed to inform them that, if she had her way, she would never become a wife, but she did not want word getting back to Elfhelm that she had rejected his offer before he even made it.

"That is quite an assumption," she instead replied, cringing as Cwene jerked her head to the side. "I shall cross that bridge _if_ it comes."

"Oh, my lady," Elflede sighed, with a trace of impatience in her voice. "Tun has already proposed to you! He will not be the only one, mark my words!"

"Who would _you_ marry?" Mildwen asked curiously. "Surely there must be someone!"

Gúthwyn's fists clenched. _Do not think of him, do not think of him, do not think of him_—but it was too late. Memories of Borogor swarmed through her: Their brawl that had convinced him to start teaching her how to properly use a sword… How he had held her against her nightmares, and given her the strength to close her eyes once more… That last evening in Ithilien, where everything had been so perfect, and they had lain beside each other…

"My lady, are you feeling well?"

Her vision cleared, and she saw that her reflection had turned pale and trembling. To her horror, a few tears had formed at the corners of her eyes. Hastily, she blinked them away.

"My apologies," she said, her voice at first wavering. "I am fine. I was merely lost in my thoughts."

Cwene gave her a sharp glance, but before anyone could say anything, or bring the conversation back to marriage, Gúthwyn spoke, "I am quite looking forward to the harvest feast."

Elflede and Mildwen seized upon that topic, and chattered delightedly for several minutes about it. Each year, after the crops had been reaped and were ready to either be sold or stored away for the winter, a gathering was held in the Golden Hall. Mead was served aplenty, and there was enough for everyone to eat seconds or thirds, if they wished. The dancing was also lively, the result being that hardly anyone returned to their homes until early in the morning.

"I wonder what gown Lothíriel will be wearing."

Gúthwyn was snapped out of her musings at the mention of the queen. "Something that will put everyone to shame, I am sure," she answered, smiling.

"I have to admit…" Elflede began, and then lowered her voice. "I am not fond of her maid, Nethiel."

Mildwen started to nod, and then quickly coughed.

"What I mean to say," Elflede continued, looking half-embarrassed to be speaking, "is that she always looks down on us. As if… well, it is difficult to describe…"

"As if we are inferior," Gúthwyn finished for her, not knowing where the words came from.

Elflede nodded thoughtfully. "Not you, my lady," she then corrected herself. "Nor Cwene, either—not after you yelled at her for dropping Gúthwyn's dresses."

Cwene muttered under her breath. "If I did not like to assume the best in people, I would have thought that she had done it on purpose. One moment, she was sneering at me, and the next, all the laundry that I had just spent an hour doing was on the ground."

Gúthwyn frowned a little. She could have cared less about the gowns; the only one she really liked was the green one. Yet, strangely enough, there seemed to be some truth in Elflede's words. Nethiel had always been cold to her, as if to say that she served only one woman in the household. The maid was a stronger echo of the disapproval Gúthwyn detected in Lothíriel, and slowly her influence was starting to wear on some of the others. Normally, Gúthwyn would have had near a dozen maids helping her prepare for feasts, or at least making the room loud with their chatter. But now, Cwene, Elflede, and Mildwen were the only ones who still regularly attended on her. It was as if there was a division between the different sides of Meduseld: The hallway where Lothíriel's chambers were located, and, on the other end, the passage where Gúthwyn's rooms were.

It was not that she missed the maids fussing over her. She was relieved, now that there were less people commenting on how thin she was or how she often had dark circles under her eyes. Yet a part of her liked the gossip that she heard in their company, and they had always gotten along well.

"Done," Cwene announced then, lowering the brush.

Gúthwyn thanked her, and then sighed. "Let us go," she said.

* * *

Half an hour later, Gúthwyn adjusted the circlet she was wearing, and repressed a most un-ladylike fidget. Now that she had finished bringing the men their drinks, she was sitting down, but she felt she would have rather been walking around with the heavy pitcher. The conversation had been turned to politics ever since the dinner began, and she was barely able to understand half of what was going on.

As the advisors continued to debate whether or not to open a new trade road to Gondor—the current one was becoming rather congested—Gúthwyn glanced down at her bread. She had not eaten anything for hours, but was nowhere close to being hungry. Tearing off a small piece, she put it in her mouth and chewed it slowly. The longer she took, the longer she had an excuse for not paying attention to the discussion.

Beside her, Haiweth looked similarly bored, and was nowhere near as adept at concealing the fact. However, Hammel was leaning forward, his eyes darting back and forth between the various speakers. A sudden image came to her mind of the boy as a sponge, soaking up all the information rapidly and storing all that he could away.

"It would encourage more of the merchants to exchange their goods," Lothíriel commented then. She was at the head of the table next to Éomer; but it was to Cobryn whom she spoke. "Some of them have been complaining about the traffic."

Cobryn shook his head. "If we were to carve out the suggested route, that would only bring more discord. It is too close to the mountains; the wagons will have difficulty traveling over it."

"Better wheels can be made," Lothíriel replied. "There are several such craftsmen in Gondor who would enjoy the business increase."

"Aye," Cobryn conceded, "but not those whom we are trying to trade with. They will not take well to having to purchase new equipment solely for the purpose of bringing their goods to one realm. It may be that they will decide it is not worth the trouble, and instead sell their wares to places such as Dol Amroth or Ithilien."

"Yet we have some things that they cannot get elsewhere," Lothíriel argued. "For example, no one in the kingdom breeds better horses."

"That may be true, but as long as the Gondorians' horses do not fail them, then they have no reason to seek out new steeds. Furthermore, the Westfold is just beginning to produce enough crops so that its people can survive the winter—it will be at least another year before we can start exporting them."

Gúthwyn was beginning to get a headache. She leaned over and said as much to Éomer; he laughed, interrupting the debate between his wife and his councilor. "My apologies, sister," he responded. "I know you have little interest in politics."

"After listening to these two," Elfhelm contributed, gesturing to Lothíriel and Cobryn, "I must admit that my dinner is starting to look less appetizing."

There was a round of general laughter at this, and while Lothíriel flushed, Cobryn merely shrugged and gave a wry smirk.

"You govern your affairs, Elfhelm," he said, "and I will take care of mine."

Elfhelm grinned, and then looked at Gúthwyn. His smile broadened. A blush crept over her cheeks, especially once she had returned the gesture and glanced over to see Cobryn arching an eyebrow.

The rest of the dinner past rather uneventfully, except for the fact that Gúthwyn managed to eat a good portion of the stew in addition to her bread, and that Elfhelm struck up a conversation with her that lasted the rest of the meal. She was finding it increasingly hard to deny the fact that he was interested in her, and prayed that it would never go so far as to him asking her for her hand.

Of course, there was very little in his words that betrayed such feelings. They chatted about the Eastfold, and various incidents that had occurred on the training grounds. She taunted him about his lack of expertise—in reality, he was one of the best opponents she had fought against—and he set about properly embarrassing her with stories from her childhood. However, this only made her feel even more awkward, as it was a sharp reminder that he was twenty years older than her.

Adding to her discomfort was the way he looked at her. It was never anything disrespectful, and his eyes never went lower than her own. But there was an open admiration within the depths of his gaze, and he hardly glanced at his meal. It astounded her to think that in just a couple of months, his attraction to her had grown so quickly. Or had he always thought of her in such a way, and concealed it because of Tun? For now she knew how obvious her champion had been in his affections; yet she had failed to understand the signs.

All in all, it was a relief when the advisors and captains began pushing their chairs back. Gúthwyn rose to her feet and bid them all goodnight, smiling and receiving several compliments on her dress. Éomer shot her a triumphant glance: He had surmised as much, when he had given her the gown, and was now sitting from an annoying perch of correctness.

Elfhelm hung back until the end. When she had turned away from Aldor he approached her.

"My lady," he said, and bowed.

"My lord," she replied, and curtsied.

Once the formalities were done—in which time Éomer had paused, and was watching them closely—Gúthwyn said, "I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight."

"That I did," he answered, smiling. "Not least because of you."

_By the Valar,_ she thought, flushing, _must this be so embarrassing?_

Remembering that she was supposed to say something, she responded, "I enjoyed your company as well, Elfhelm."

This was, in part, true: If he had not expressed so much interest in her, she would have been delighted to speak with him all evening. A part of her felt horrible that she could not return his feelings. After all, he had excellent manners and was always kind to her. She held him in high esteem, but simply was unable to turn her heart favorably towards him.

Rather, it only increased her guilt when his smile broadened at her words. "Goodnight, my lady," he murmured with another bow.

"Goodnight," Gúthwyn said. "Sleep well."

Once they had parted, she took a deep breath, and turned to where she knew Éomer would be. Lothíriel had joined him, slipping an arm about his waist, but for once her brother's attention was not on his wife. Instead, he had thrown her a most un-kingly smirk. "So," he said as she approached.

"Éomer, stop it," Gúthwyn retorted, checking to make sure Elfhelm was nowhere in sight. Lothíriel glanced at her coldly.

He chuckled. "There is nothing wrong with a man courting a woman. And you are not so young now that it would be distasteful."

Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat. How could he be so ignorant, so blind, as to what was truly bothering her? Had he already forgotten all that she had told him, and how she had cried herself to sleep in his arms over what Haldor had done to her? Why was he still insisting on a marriage for her, if he knew how she had been tortured and raped for three years? If he knew that she had loved someone?

"Éomer," she choked out, intending to yell at him, scream at him—anything to get her point across.

_No,_ she thought a second later. _Not in front of everyone._

"Forget it," she said hollowly.

Éomer's brow knitted. "What is it that troubles you, sister?" he inquired softly.

"Do you not know?" Gúthwyn whispered.

There was a pause, in which his eyes widened and the lump in her throat grew. Lothíriel glanced back and forth between the two of them, puzzled. _Well, Éomer?_ she asked him silently. _Do you remember now?_

He opened his mouth, and all of a sudden she did not want to hear whatever it was that he was going to say. "Goodnight," she managed, and hastily turned away. The children were waiting for her at the entrance to the hallway… If she could just get to them, everything would be fine…

A hand came down on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. "Gúthwyn," Éomer said gently.

She did not look at him. Hammel and Haiweth were watching them curiously.

"Éomer," she muttered finally, and pulled herself out of his grasp. "I am tired. Excuse me."

Before he had a chance to even say her name, she hastened towards the children. "Come, Hammel, Haiweth," she said, smiling wearily at them. "It is time for bed."

"What were you talking to Éomer about?" Haiweth questioned curiously.

"Nothing important," Gúthwyn answered, trying to inject some false cheer into her voice.

Hammel's eyes met hers. He blinked, slowly, and then sighed. "Nothing important," he repeated.

* * *

When Gúthwyn awoke the next afternoon, she lay there for several minutes without opening her eyes. The events of the night before swirled around uneasily in her mind. What had Éomer been thinking, to assume that he could joke with her about her suitors? That with a single smirk, he could convince her to accept the fact that Elfhelm was courting her, and even turn her thoughts toward marriage?

She understood, of course, his reasons, though she liked them little. Society did not look kindly upon single women, especially those who already had children. Furthermore, she was at the perfect age for seeking out a husband, and she still had many years ahead of her in which to bear children. And despite her brother's instant suspicion of whatever male happened to cross her path, she knew that he wanted her to be happy, preferably with a respectable husband at her side.

But all this did not make her more responsive to the idea of sharing her life with someone. She could hardly begin to imagine what it would be like to wake up beside another—not shivering in terror, as she had with Haldor, but with a contented smile on her face—and carrying out the motions of a housewife. Nor did she want to contemplate giving birth to children.

For the briefest moment, the dark hint of a memory brushed across her mind. She buried it swiftly and soon forgot about it, yet there was something about having a son or a daughter… nay, she did not need one; she already had Hammel and Haiweth. They were more than enough for her, and though they were not her own, she had cared for them as if she were indeed their mother.

A sigh escaped her. Her thoughts were not entirely truthful: she would have married Borogor in a second, had she been given the chance. With him, it did not seem so wrong to enjoy being in his arms, to dream of kissing him, or to even think of the two of them falling asleep together. She knew he would have respected her fears, rather than become perplexed if she cringed from his touch.

"Gúthwyn?"

Her eyes flew open as she gasped in fright. There was someone in her room—she looked around wildly, simultaneously pressing herself as far back into the pillows as she could go.

"Sister, it is I."

The voice was nearer at hand, but she now knew it was Éomer's, and calmed down somewhat. Her gaze fixed on where he sat in a chair next to her bed, raising his eyebrows slightly at her reaction.

"By the Valar, Éomer," she breathed, resisting the urge to press her hand over her pounding heart. "You startled me!"

"I did not mean to," Éomer replied quietly, his dark eyes meeting hers apologetically. "I am sorry; please, forgive me."

"W-What are you doing here?" she asked weakly, trying to shift into a more upright position.

He exhaled. "Gúthwyn," he began seriously, "there are two things I wanted to talk to you about—I came here because I wished to do so as soon as possible, and there would be no danger of someone else hearing us."

Gúthwyn remained silent, waiting for him to continue. She wondered if this had anything to do with Haldor, and shivered.

Apparently, she was right. "Sister, about last night… I do not want you to believe that I am not… that I have not…" He paused, struggling for the right words. "I know it seemed as if I was not mindful of what you wanted. Cobryn has told me numerous times that you have no interest in getting married."

"Then why are you not listening to him?" she whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Éomer sighed. "Gúthwyn, do you not think that finding a husband would help you forget about what happened in Mordor?"

The breath caught in her throat. "No!" she cried, incapable of understanding how he was so blind to her troubles. "Why can you not see that?"

His eyes widened. "I am only trying to help you," he said quietly. "I know I cannot always be here for you—Cobryn tells me that you still have nightmares, and I cannot leave my wife overmuch to comfort you—yet it seems to me that a husband would be able to far better than I."

She stared at him, feeling as if the tears were going to come again. Angrily, she blinked her eyes dry. "I do not want a husband," she said flatly.

"Can I not persuade you to look for one?" Éomer questioned gently. "If it is your wedding night that you fear, I promise you that there is not a single man within all of Rohan who would dream of harming you. Any of them would leap at the chance to be your husband; they are all decent, honest men, and would do anything for you."

_He has no idea,_ she thought to herself. _He truly thinks that becoming a wife will be the answer to all of my troubles._

"Sister," Éomer now said, reaching forward to put a hand on her shoulder, "I want you to be happy. It grieves my heart to think of you as a woman living alone, without the love that Éowyn and I have for our spouses. Will you not give yourself a second chance?"

Gúthwyn closed her eyes, counted to five, and opened them. _Perhaps,_ she thought, _if I placate him now, he will not speak of the matter so frequently to me._

And then another voice came to her mind, shocking her at first. _Maybe he is right. Maybe it is time that you started trying to bury the memories of Haldor. He is gone now, and never to hurt you. It will be better for everyone—you, Hammel, and Haiweth—if you learn to push him away. Even Lothíriel said it: The children need a father._

_But what about Borogor?_ the other part of her asked. _You have always loved him, and it would be unfair to any husband of yours that you should enter a marriage without your heart in it._

_Borogor would understand,_ she thought suddenly. _He would not mind if I sought out a father for the children, or if I tried to forget Mordor, or if I even tried to love another._

"Gúthwyn?"

She swallowed hard. "If you wish it, brother," she said, "then… then I will think about it. I-I will think about finding a husband."

A cold feeling settled into her stomach as she said this, but it was almost worth it when she saw the relieved expression on Éomer's face.

"Thank you, Gúthwyn," he said, smiling as he lowered her hand. "That is all I can ask of you."

_And that I wear a white dress on special occasions, _she thought to herself wryly.

In an effort to keep her mind from that which she had promised to do, Gúthwyn inquired, "What was the second thing you want to speak to me about?"

"Ah," Éomer said, and his face turned serious. "Elfhelm just approached me this morning."

She froze. Her heart hammered in dread of what she thought her brother was about to tell her. "What did he say?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Éomer was silent for a moment. Then he answered, "Gúthwyn, he has asked me for your hand in marriage."

All of the color drained out of her face. "What was your response?" she questioned swiftly, for a terrifying instant thinking that he had already said yes.

"I told him that I was not averse to such a union, but that I would speak to you first and let you make the decision."

Relief swept over her, but just as quickly it was blown away by anger and hurt. "Is that why you just asked me if I would consider finding a husband?" she demanded. "So that if I said yes, I would be more likely to accept Elfhelm's offer?"

The smallest shadow of guilt edged its way into Éomer's eyes. "Sister, I will not deny that I think he would be an excellent partner. He is a close friend, and I know his worth as well as I do my own. He would care for you and see that you lacked for nothing. Long has he admired you from afar—it was only Tun's presence that kept him from courting you."

"So you have manipulated me?" Gúthwyn asked, trembling with disgust and fury.

"I would never do such a thing," Éomer said quietly. "Your happiness is worth more to me than my own content with the man you choose to marry, if you do so. That is why… why I gave my permission to Tun, for I thought that you loved him."

Gúthwyn looked down at her blanket, not wanting him to see how close to the mark he was. "Where is Elfhelm?" she wanted to know, her heart weighing heavily with the weight of what she was about to do.

"He is outside," Éomer said, and when she glanced up at him, she saw that his eyes were fixed on her. "Have you…"

"Will you excuse me, brother?" Gúthwyn asked, sighing. "I need to get dressed before I speak with him."

Éomer nodded. "As you wish," he said gruffly. "Ah… good luck."

With that, he left, and Gúthwyn had no choice but to get out of bed. She was not looking forward to what she knew she had to do. It would involve hurting the feelings of a man that she respected and had idolized in her early childhood years. It would involve refusing the earnest offer of someone who only had her best interests in mind, and possibly even changing their friendship.

_Please, do not let it come to that,_ she thought. She would not be able to stand another painfully awkward relationship like the one she now had with Tun. It grieved her every single time they walked by each other, for he was always too ashamed to meet her eyes for more than a few seconds, and she was too embarrassed to do anything other than flush.

After changing into her usual grey dress, and brushing her hair quickly, Gúthwyn took a deep breath and relaxed all her muscles. _Just do this,_ she told herself. _The sooner you do it, the sooner it will be over._

With that in mind, she left her chambers and passed into the throne room. Several of the advisors were having lunch; Éomer had taken his place amongst them, and met her eyes briefly as she passed the table. She did not even look at Cobryn, knowing that he would be able to garner far more from her expression than she wanted him to.

As she came out onto the landing, thanking the guards who had held the door open for her, she scanned the main street for Elfhelm. To her relief, or dismay, she saw him only a few yards away from the stairs. He was standing near a fountain, talking quietly to Gamling. She noticed that his face was paler than usual.

The Marshal did not see her until she had gone down the steps. When he did, he started. "My lady," he murmured, bowing as she approached.

"My lord," Gúthwyn acknowledge, feeling her heart twist as she looked upon him. "Hello, Gamling."

He nodded, sensing what it was she had come to do. "Shall I leave the two of you alone?"

"Would you mind?" Gúthwyn inquired.

"Not at all, my lady," the captain replied, and before long he was on his way down the street. Gúthwyn and Elfhelm were left to shift uncomfortably on their feet.

"May we go somewhere, ah, less public?" Gúthwyn asked, knowing that she did not want to embarrass him in front of a crowd of people—several of whom were watching them curiously.

"Of course," Elfhelm agreed, and smiled. There was a trace of nervousness in the gesture that did not go undetected by her.

Gúthwyn led the Marshal around the Golden Hall, to the very greensward she had refused Tun at. Her heart clenched at the memory, and she quickly forced it from her mind.

"Elfhelm," she began, once they were shielded from all eyes and she had turned around to face him. "Éomer told me of… of your proposal."

His face paled a little, and he swallowed. By the Valar, how she hated doing this.

"I-I am sorry," Gúthwyn said. "I hold great respect for you, and I hope to still count you as a close friend after this… but I cannot accept your offer."

She watched as his eyes widened, and loathed herself even more.

"Please know," she said quickly, "it has nothing to do with you. Any woman would consider themselves lucky to have you as a husband. B-But I am not yet ready to marry… As flattered as I was—am—by your attention, I cannot be your wife."

Unlike Tun, Elfhelm's words did not voice the dejection she saw in his eyes. Instead, he made a valiant attempt to nod. "I cannot convince you otherwise?" he asked quietly.

Gúthwyn shook her head, feeling worse with each sentence that she spoke. "I am so sorry," she replied, and she truly meant it. "I pray I have not offended you."

"Nay, my lady," Elfhelm replied, sighing a little. "I understand."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said, smiling sadly at him. "Thank you, Elfhelm."

Then she turned away, and he remained a solitary figure as she passed onto the street.


	40. A Forthcoming Relative

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Forty:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Forty**

To Gúthwyn's immense relief, her relationship with Elfhelm returned to normal. He seemed to take her rejection quite well, and as September passed them by he grew comfortable enough in her presence to tease her once again. This was far more satisfactory than Tun: he still avoided her, and had barely spoken more than three sentences to her since she had refused his offer. This pained her more than she cared to admit, but she would not force conversation on him, especially now that he had a wife.

Yet as time passed, she became more and more unhappy with their arrangement, and decided to speak with the one person who would permit her to change it: Brithwen. The solution had come to her during one of her many sleepless nights; she could not believe that she had not thought of it before. However, she knew that such a visit would have to be undertaken delicately, as she did not want to offend her champion's wife.

With that in mind, she decided to go to their house in late September, when the process of the harvesting was underway. Tun had agreed to help out with some of the labor, and she knew that he would be out on the fields instead of at his home. As the afternoon sun touched the rooftops with a fiery gold, Gúthwyn made her way down the street, occasionally returning the greetings of the civilians.

Brithwen was not outside the modest home that Tun had built for her with the help of some carpenters, but Gúthwyn had already checked the usual washing and gossiping circles and knew that she was not to be found there either. Taking a deep breath and hoping that she would not say anything to anger the woman, she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

A moment later, it was opened. Brithwen's curious eyes turned wide with shock, and her mouth formed a small "o" of surprise.

"My lady Gúthwyn," she said breathlessly, curtsying.

"Brithwen," Gúthwyn acknowledged with a nod, tentatively smiling at her.

The woman glanced at her. "Tun is not here," she said. Try as she might to conceal it, a hint of suspicion worked its way into her voice.

Gúthwyn flushed, knowing fully well the source of Brithwen's unease. "That is not why I came," she replied. "I was hoping to talk to you, if you are not too busy."

A look of astonishment briefly passed over Brithwen's face, but she quickly recovered, and said, "Of course, my lady. Come in."

"Please," Éomund's daughter said as she crossed over the threshold, "call me Gúthwyn."

Brithwen did not seem to know what to say, and instead settled for offering her something to drink. Gúthwyn declined, taking a moment to look around the house. A smile came to her face: Though it was small, it was well furnished, and had the unmistakable touch of a woman's presence in its decoration. There was a good-sized fireplace on one wall, around which a few chairs had been gathered. She could see a door at the other end of the room that presumably led to where they slept.

"You have a wonderful home," she commented, meaning every word that she spoke.

"Thank you," Brithwen replied awkwardly, and then motioned towards a small table. "Shall we sit here?"

Gúthwyn nodded, and soon the two women had settled themselves into the wooden chairs. Brithwen regarded her for a minute before asking, "Why have you come?"

She had known that the other woman would not think her purpose trustworthy, but for a few seconds Gúthwyn was silent, surprised at the bluntness of her speech. Then she sighed, and said, "I was wondering…"

How could she say this without sounding condescending?

"I was wondering if…"

"Does this have anything to do with Tun?" Brithwen asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Gúthwyn nodded.

A long sigh escaped Brithwen, and a brief trace of hurt could be found in her gaze. "He still loves you, you know," she commented, swallowing.

The breath froze in Gúthwyn's chest. "He does?" she whispered, horrified.

"Oh, he never says anything about it to me," Brithwen said, waving her hand with only the merest trace of bitterness. "But I can tell. His eyes always stray to you whenever you walk down the street, and it is all the more difficult for him to turn them back to me."

"Brithwen, I am so sorry," Gúthwyn fervently apologized, mortified for her sake. "I had no idea—I did not—"

The woman shrugged. "I wanted to hate you for it," she admitted. "But it is not your fault. Besides, he married me, did he not?"

Again, Gúthwyn nodded. "Yet… yet he loves you," she said, her voice trailing off so that it was more of a question than a statement.

"Aye, he does," Brithwen responded heavily. "And he has been good to me. But it has always been you that he wanted; he has just gotten better at keeping it a secret."

Gúthwyn could not imagine what it was like to be married to someone who loved another. It was the fate that would befall her own husband, if she ever wedded. A terrible guilt worked its way upon her, and more than ever she regretted having been so blind to Tun's feelings towards her. "I will avoid him," she said quickly, praying that there was some way she could amend this situation. "I will not speak to him, and perhaps he will forget…"

"No, my lady, do not do that," Brithwen said, smiling sadly. "For even though he does not now have the courage to talk to you, if you ignored him it would shatter his heart."

"Is there nothing that I can do, then?" Gúthwyn asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You are blameless for this," Brithwen informed her, "and there are worse things that my life could have been. Yet I will speak to him, and tell him that he need not restrain himself from conversing with you. He is, after all, your champion."

Gúthwyn stared at her in confusion. "But that—"

"I appreciate you coming here," Brithwen said. "You have certainly won my respect for it, though a part of me wishes I could loathe you. For I am not a fool—I know you miss him, as well, even if you do not love him. I will not forbid the two of you from speaking to each other. It is not a bitter wife that I desire to become."

In that moment, Gúthwyn knew that Tun could have hardly married a better woman. "Thank you, Brithwen," she murmured, inclining her head. "I hardly know what to…"

"You are welcome," Brithwen replied quietly, and rose. Gúthwyn followed suit.

"Good day," Éomund's daughter said, and curtsied.

A faint smile came to Brithwen's face. "Good day, my lady."

When Gúthwyn stepped out onto the street a moment later, her mind was buzzing with what Brithwen had told her. She should have known that Tun's attraction to her would not simply disappear with a refusal; she should have known that he would still love her somewhat, even though he had wedded another. After all, would that not be her, if somehow Éomer wore her down enough to the point where she found a husband? Marrying for the sake of marrying, not truly loving the person in whose bed she would sleep, her heart given to someone far out of her reach?

These thoughts troubled her, and she sought to divert herself from them. Hammel and Haiweth were somewhere on this street; she went to look for them, having hardly seen them all day. Deciding to search first in a large clearing where most of the children were given to play, she pointed her feet in that direction and began walking.

About halfway to her destination she stopped. Gamling was kneeling down a few yards away from her, playing a game with Haiweth. Squinting, she saw that they were using bone dice, and rolling them to get a certain combination. Hammel was just behind them, presiding over the game interestedly.

A smile tugged at her lips when Haiweth cried out in delight, evidently just having won a round. Even Hammel could not keep himself from grinning, pleased to see his sister so happy. More than content to watch, rather than interfere, Gúthwyn hung back and waited. Gamling said something to Haiweth, and then rolled his dice. Haiweth clapped her hands gleefully—evidently, the stakes were in her favor.

A few seconds later, the girl glanced up and saw her. "Gúthwyn!" she exclaimed, and Gamling turned around to see her.

"My lady," he said, smiling. "I was just teaching Hammel and Haiweth how to play one of my favorite games from when I was a child."

"I can hardly imagine you that young," she teased him.

"Yes, Gamling, you are too old!" Haiweth agreed.

Gamling's mouth opened in mock astonishment. "This is what I get after showing you a new game?"

Haiweth giggled.

"Come," Gúthwyn said to the children with a smile. "We have used enough of Gamling's time, and dinner is almost ready. Éomer will be wondering where we have gone."

"I do not mind," the captain replied. "The children are welcome to see me whenever they wish."

"Thank you," Hammel said quietly. Gúthwyn nodded.

"Your kindness is much appreciated," she added. "Will you be dining with us tonight, or do you have other plans?"

"It is the latter," Gamling answered. "My sister has promised to make me some stew, and I can never resist her cooking."

"Give her my greetings, will you?" Gúthwyn requested.

He bowed. "That I shall."

They parted then, and together Gúthwyn and the children made their way towards the Golden Hall. There they were met by Cobryn, who had been leaning against one of the pillars and surveying the land.

"Cobryn!" Haiweth exclaimed, once they were within earshot. "I beat Gamling with the dice!"

Cobryn smirked, and as Gúthwyn drew nearer he leaned close to her and muttered, "That man is a terrible gambler. A formidable foe on the battlefield, but a laughable one at the table."

She repressed a snicker at this, and turned the noise into a cough as Cobryn congratulated Haiweth on her win.

"Gúthwyn," Cobryn said, once they were on their way inside, "Éomer wishes to speak with you in his chambers."

Slightly surprised, Gúthwyn asked, "Where is Lothíriel?"

"She and several of the maids just left to do some washing," Cobryn explained. "In other words, gossiping."

Knowing this was indeed the case, as Lothíriel hardly set her hands in the water more than was necessary to give a pretense of working deftly at the task, Gúthwyn gave a wry grin. "I suppose we shall hear of all the latest scandals within the hour," she said. Though Lothíriel hardly ever confided in her her findings, the maids' tongues were bound to wag, and the tales that they had heard were often spread throughout the entire city—if they had not been already—by the next evening.

"I do not doubt it," Cobryn agreed. "Well, it would be best if you go to Éomer now, for dinner is about to be served."

Gúthwyn nodded, and when they had entered the dim throne room she separated from the children. She walked down the hall, curiosity hastening her movements. The only time she slowed down was when she had arrived at Éomer's door, and that was to knock and announce her presence.

"Come in," she heard.

With a push of the door, she stepped inside her brother's room. He was sitting at his desk, writing a letter; but when he saw her, he set aside the quill and motioned for her to sit.

"Cobryn said you wanted to talk to me?" Gúthwyn inquired, giving him an invitation to explain.

"Aye," Éomer said, and grinned. Up close, she saw that his eyes were alive with a great excitement, and his fingers were restlessly tapping out a rhythm on the surface of his desk. "Sister, I have wonderful news for us all."

"What is it?" Gúthwyn immediately asked, eager for what it was that had made him so happy.

"Lothíriel just spoke with me this morning," Éomer said, and lowered his voice. "She is carrying a child!"

Gúthwyn gasped. "Oh, congratulations!" she cried. The next instant, she had flung herself from her chair and embraced him. "I am so happy for you!" It had been the last thing on her mind, that Lothíriel could have conceived. "By the Valar," she said as they separated. "You are going to be a father! And I an aunt!"

Éomer was beaming like an idiot, and she knew that she was as well. "I could hardly believe it when she told me," he breathed, taking a deep breath and nearly quivering in joy. "Yet she says she is certain, and that we could have a child as early as next June."

"Have you told anyone else yet?" Gúthwyn wanted to know. "Cobryn did not seem as if he was aware of what your news was."

Her brother shook his head. "Nay," he responded. "Lothíriel and I shall inform the council tomorrow, and the rest of the people at the harvest feast." Then he gestured to the letter that was still on his desk. "I was just writing to Éowyn when you came in. Hopefully, she and Faramir will be able to visit as soon as possible."

A surge of giddiness went through Gúthwyn at the thought of seeing her sister again; it had been nearly three-quarters of the year since she had last spoken with her. "I cannot wait!" she exclaimed. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Éomer laughed at her eagerness, and said, "Not yet. Perhaps later, Lothíriel might ask you to do a few things that she cannot manage on her own, but I suspect you will be more needed when the baby is born. We shall be hiring a nurse, though my wife would likely appreciate some additional help watching the child—if you are willing to give it."

"Of course I am," Gúthwyn assured him. Contentedness was spreading throughout her. "Just think…" she mused, smiling. "Éowyn and I will both be aunts!"

"I am certain that you will both fulfill your roles admirably," Éomer said. "Especially you. You have always been good with children."

Gúthwyn flushed at the praise. "I have Hammel and Haiweth to thank for that," she said affectionately, and sighed. "I am so glad I have them with me today."

Éomer smiled gently. "And I am glad that you are with us."

A touch of melancholy came over her. "I cannot believe I thought that you and Éowyn were dead," she spoke, her voice subdued. "And yet it was the other way around…" She did not say it aloud, but it struck her as ironic that she had spent all her years as a slave thinking that her uncle and cousin were healthy, and that her siblings had perished. However, when the dust had cleared after the War of the Ring, it was Théodred and Théoden who were buried in the mounds lining the road into Edoras, while Éowyn and Éomer breathed the fresh air and walked upon the earth.

Not wanting to ruin the happy moment, Gúthwyn cleared her throat and said, "Will you be sending the letter to Éowyn tomorrow?"

Éomer nodded.

"Then I will write one also," Gúthwyn decided. "I just received one from her last week, and I have not yet replied."

"Speaking of correspondents," Éomer said suddenly, glancing at her, "are you and Elphir still exchanging letters?"

The faintest trace of a blush spread across her cheeks, but she determinedly met his eyes and replied, "Yes."

Smirking, Éomer said, "I am curious, sister. You insist on denying that he is interested in you, but continue encouraging him to write to you?"

"Is it not perfectly normal that I should write to a friend?" Gúthwyn returned. "Especially one so agreeable as Elphir?"

Éomer rolled his eyes. "Gúthwyn, a prince does not simply write to a woman who is not his relative. You can naysay it all you want, but he is clearly interested in you."

"And you, dear brother, are too given to suspicion. It can be quite annoying at times," she replied.

He shot her a glare, and she laughed all the more for it.

* * *

Later that evening, Gúthwyn decided that it was in order for her to give her congratulations to Lothíriel. She had not spoken to the queen all day, as she had returned to the Golden Hall while Gúthwyn was in her chambers, and had shortly thereafter gone to her own room. Shortly before dinner, Éomund's daughter crossed over to the other side of Meduseld, and made her way down the passage.

Éomer was speaking with his advisors—at this very moment informing them of his wife's news—so it would only be Lothíriel in her chambers, perhaps with Nethiel at her side. As it were, Gúthwyn could not help feeling slightly apprehensive as she paused outside the door to the queen's room. If anything, Lothíriel's inexplicable disapproval of her had only become more pronounced in the months following their ill-fated duel. The two of them rarely spoke, and they were hardly ever in the same company.

Sighing a little, she raised her hand and knocked on the door. There was a long pause, in which Gúthwyn glanced around the hall. At the very end of the corridor she could see Théodred's room. All of his things were still in it: Neither she nor Éomer had had the heart to remove them. When a guest came, they were delicately put away or kept out of sight, but no sooner had the visitor left than they had been put back out once more.

At that moment, the door opened about a foot, and Lothíriel peered out to see her. Though her eyes narrowed, she did not say anything.

"Hello," Gúthwyn finally spoke up, giving her a tentative smile. It was minimally returned.

The entire situation was awkward, and Lothíriel was not exactly moving to help her. "Éomer told me that you are expecting a child," she at length said, and despite the tension between them, she grinned. "Congratulations!"

A glow came to Lothíriel's cheeks, and for one of the few instances in Gúthwyn's recollection her eyes sparkled with delight. "Thank you," she replied, some of the frost melting in her voice.

"I wish you and the babe the best," Gúthwyn said earnestly. "If there is anything I can do to help, please just say the word."

"Your offer is greatly appreciated," Lothíriel responded, and the corners of her lips tugged upwards. "I will let you know if I should have need of your services."

Gúthwyn smiled. In her own way, she had appeased the queen, and for some weeks afterwards no cold look was sent in her direction.


	41. Letter From Mordor

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Forty-One:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Forty-One**

As the days of September faded, news came to Rohan all the way from the Shire. Frodo the Ringbearer, Bilbo Baggins his uncle, Gandalf the White, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, and the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood had passed into the west, taking the Straight Path to the Undying Lands. With their departure came an end to the Third Age of Middle-earth, and a fourth was begun. The Gondorians later reckoned the next year as the beginning of the new Age.

Gúthwyn heard these tidings with mixed feelings. She regretted not having gotten a chance to see Frodo again, for she had liked him a great deal, and still felt guilty for having attempted to steal the Ring from him. Yet Merry, occasionally writing to King Éomer, had informed them that Frodo was no longer content in his home, and she was aware that the Hobbit would find peace in the Undying Lands. He deserved happiness, especially after all that he had been through.

Life in Edoras continued. When news of Lothíriel's pregnancy was given to the Rohirrim, a great many days were spent in rejoicing and celebrating the imminent arrival of the king's heir. It did not matter that their queen could barely speak their language—for weeks afterwards, the people approached her whenever they were able, offering their congratulations and good wishes. Although Lothíriel seemed slightly unused to such forwardness, she bore their attentions with grace, and it went not unnoticed to Gúthwyn that her demeanor became less outwardly cool.

However, as of yet there was little need to prepare extensively for the baby's birth, and Gúthwyn was not kept busy with thoughts of her brother's son or daughter. In the early days of October, rumor had circulated to Rohan of King Elessar's return from Mordor. Evidently, he had come to an agreement with the slaves, as well as the soldiers of the Dark Lord's army.

Shortly afterwards, Gúthwyn was to be found in the throne room, listening as her brother spoke with a messenger from Gondor. Much to her disappointment, nothing was said in front of her.

"I was bidden by King Elessar to deliver this to you," the man spoke with a bow. Once he had straightened, he handed to Éomer a thick letter. Even from a distance, Gúthwyn could espy the seal of the White Tree.

Éomer took the letter, but did not open it. Instead, he thanked the messenger. "You are welcome to remain here for the night, and we will provide your horse with good food and a clean stall."

"Your offer is most graciously received, my lord," the man replied, giving another bow. Then he glanced about the hall as if searching for someone or something. To Gúthwyn's surprise, his eyes fell on her, and he started forward. "With all due respect, my lord," he said as Éomer looked at him. "But Elessar gave to me another letter, that I was to give only to the hands of the Lady Gúthwyn."

Feeling as if she were about to burst from curiosity, Gúthwyn moved forward and received the envelope. "Thank you," she said, though it sounded as if she were speaking from a distance.

Hammel was at her side, and she saw his eyes fix on the letter. After a moment, she gave it to him for his inspection. He spent several minutes analyzing the seal, and next the handwriting with which "Gúthwyn" had been scrawled upon the parchment. Then Haiweth clamored to see it, and after silently asking Gúthwyn's permission the boy let her take it from him.

"You got a letter from the _King?_" Haiweth questioned in awe.

"I did," Gúthwyn confirmed, resisting the urge to tear open the envelope right then and there. Dimly, she could hear Lothíriel summoning a servant, and giving him the instructions that he was to inform the cook of the additional guest. Her gaze settled on Gúthwyn for a few seconds as she said this, and narrowed in the direction of her letter.

Shortly afterwards, Gúthwyn took leave of her brother's company. The knuckles of the hand holding the parchment were now white, so anxious was she to read the contents. Perhaps Aragorn would even have news of some of the people she had sparred against for three years…

It was a marvel that, once she had closed the door to her chambers behind her, she did not tear apart the envelope. Instead, she willed herself to open it carefully, so that she avoided ripping the edges. Interestingly enough, it contained two letters, rather than one. She chose the paper that had the mark of the White Tree on it, and began to read.

_Gúthwyn,_

_Though I am writing to you first, rather than your brother, I have sent him the outcome of the negotiations. I trust that he will not keep them from you, and to guard against that I will include a warning in his letter. Yet I think it would be better for him to bring the news to you rather than I, for he knows best your mood and can deliver such tidings accordingly._

Biting her lip in frustration, Gúthwyn somehow managed to keep herself from rushing over to her brother's chambers and demanding to know what had happened.

_However, please be assured that none of those you once knew have been punished. I had your words of what they desired in mind when I spoke with their leaders, and hopefully I have succeeded in abetting their fortunes. But there is one I met who had a grim outlook, and he confessed to me that he made a mistake long ago, and ruined what might have been a friendship. His name was Dîrbenn._

Gúthwyn's eyes widened in shock. He was still alive! She had thought him dead, another fatality of the final battle in which he had fought for the Dark Lord. It was a relief to know that the man who had cared for Hammel and Haiweth in her absence had not perished—but then she swallowed, knowing of what it was that Aragorn spoke. He had been furious with her when she had returned to Mordor and… by the Valar, she did not want to admit it… She had made love to Haldor with Borogor's body hardly cold. Unlike her, Dîrbenn was loyal; he had loathed her for it, had spat at her and denounced her as a whore.

_It chanced that I said your name in our conversation, for he wondered how I knew so much about what the soldiers truly wanted. When he heard this, he froze, but when I pressed him he said no more. I assumed he must have known you at one point, and thought little of it. But when my men and I were leaving, he approached me, and bid me to give to you a letter that he had written._

_I promise you, I have not opened it; nor have any others. It was not my wish to send it separately, for there might have been repercussions if you had appeared to be in correspondence with the second-in-command of Sauron's human army._

She froze, briefly: Haldor had replaced Borogor with his best friend, just as Borogor had been a replacement for his own best friend… _No, not now,_ she thought, and returned her attention to the letter.

_I hope that you are well, and that the children suffer no ailments. Please send them my greetings._

_Sincerely, Aragorn_

Gently, Gúthwyn set the parchment aside and picked up the next one, sitting down on her bed as she did so. She wondered what Dîrbenn could possibly have to say to her. Would he belittle her, and scorn her for her prosperity while the rest of Sauron's army had to make do with what Aragorn was generous enough to give them?

She took a deep breath.

_Gúthwyn,_

_I think I must have started this letter a dozen times. I am not really sure how to talk to you after all these years—after the grudge I have held against you for so long. I never imagined I would have this chance; I thought you had perished in some windowless dungeon of the Dark Lord's. A part of me was glad, for I remembered that you hate the dark, and it pleased me to know that you would die such a death. Because even then, even after you saved Hammel and Haiweth, I could not put behind me (rightfully so) what you had done in the wake of Borogor's death._

_Yet it is not so now. When I learned that you were still alive, and indeed living out your days as the sister of the king of Rohan, I cannot deny that at first I thought such a thing impossible. I thought that King Elessar, benevolent as he was, had somehow learned of your name and was using it to garner some type of reaction from me. However, he mentioned the children, and I knew that it was no falsehood._

_Gúthwyn, what I am really trying to say is something that will not come out as eloquent as I have attempted to make the rest of this letter sound. I want to apologize to you. While what you did was wrong, and I will never be able to think of you without recalling it, I believe the time has come to put it aside. I know that you really did love Borogor, even if you did not realize it until it was too late—he was the only one you let so close that he could touch you and you would not cringe. And though you did not mark it, your eyes lit up whenever you saw him._

_I cannot pretend I understand why you sought Haldor out on the night of your return. Perhaps you cannot, either. Yet I forgive you, though I will not forget. I hope you and the children are well; you must be, if you are the sister of King Éomer. I heard he is an excellent ruler, and that you and he are both loved by the people. This gladdens me to some extent, for it means that Hammel and Haiweth will be cared for properly, and get the upbringing that they deserve._

_Please send my good wishes to them. Although I loathed you when you asked me to take care of them, in light of all that you had done, I would not have had it any other way. Hammel, in particular, was a wonderful child—he knows far more than he lets on, so do not be surprised if he is not so blind to what Haldor did to you as you think. I appreciated his company, and the Valar know he and his sister may have kept me from descending into bitterness and hatred._

_Now that King Elessar has granted us freedom, I will be traveling to Gondor, where I was once a healer. It is doubtful that we shall ever see each other again, for my home is far south of Minas Tirith, and it is not very populated. Nor do I think it is so regretful that this is the case: As I have said, I may have forgiven, but I have not forgotten. I should like to see Hammel once more, but I abandoned all hopes of doing so when you rescued him and Haiweth, and I will not raise them up._

_If this is it, then, I want to say that for all your flaws, you did one… no, two things right: Raising the children as well as you have, and making Borogor's days a little happier. I might seem like a fool for saying this, but there you have it. And when my time is over, and yours as well, maybe we shall see each other. Borogor will be waiting for us, of that I am sure._

_Good luck, Dîrbenn_

Tears were streaming quietly down Gúthwyn's face by the time she had finished. Her hands remained steady, so the letter did not shake, but the words were so blurry that she could hardly see them. Dîrbenn had forgiven her… how many times had she tormented herself for that night, the night that she wished had never happened, the night that she would have given anything to erase?

She could not even be angry with him for confessing to have wanted her death; he had every right to do so. Yet to speak of Borogor in such a way… nay, it was not disrespectful, but she could not bear the agony it wrought within her. More than anything, she wanted him at her side, holding her hand as he did in Ithilien. Even now, she was not crying for him… it was for all that Dîrbenn had told her. She was forgiven, her sins pardoned. It felt as if a weight was being lifted off of her shoulders, only to be replaced by Dîrbenn's words.

How long she remained there, she did not know. But her eyes had not yet dried when she heard a knock on the door. "Gúthwyn?" someone called. It was Hammel.

Hastily, she wiped away the tears and folded up the letter. There was nothing she could do about her red-rimmed eyes; she did not even try to conceal them. "Come in," she called.

The boy stepped inside, and marked instantly that she had been crying. "What is wrong?" he asked quietly, coming to sit beside her on the bed.

Gúthwyn shook her head, trying her best to smile. "I just got a letter from Dîrbenn," she explained.

Hammel's eyes widened. "He is alive?" he asked. "What did he say?"

"He misses you and Haiweth," Gúthwyn replied softly, absent-mindedly reaching up to ruffle the child's hair. "He told me to send you his greetings."

Hammel mulled this over. "I miss him, too," he said, sighing. Then he looked at her. "What did he tell you?"

"Nothing important," Gúthwyn lied. "He just… He just mentioned Borogor." Her voice almost broke as she said this, and she turned her head so that Hammel could not see the tears forming anew.

There was a silence, until Gúthwyn asked, "Is dinner ready?"

"Yes," Hammel answered. "I was sent here to get you."

Gúthwyn stood, and dried her eyes once more. He watched her silently as she did this, but did not say anything. For that, she was grateful. Once she was ready to go, they left her chambers and went down the passage. Neither of them spoke during their walk, each wrapped in their own thoughts. She kept repeating the words of Dîrbenn over and over in her mind. _What you did was wrong… I will never be able to think of you without recalling it… I may have forgiven, but I have not forgotten… Borogor will be waiting for us, of that I am sure._

She had rarely entertained the thought that she would see Borogor again, once she had passed from the circles of the world. Only when death had seemed certain at Haldor's hands had she believed that soon the two of them would be reunited. Shivers came over her, and she wrapped her arms around herself. _Borogor…_ she thought miserably. _What I would not give to have you with me…_

Almost before she realized it, they had entered the throne room. Éomer and Lothíriel were already there, talking to each other, as well as Haiweth and Cobryn. The latter glanced keenly at Gúthwyn as she approached; she knew that, like Hammel, he had detected the sadness surrounding her. As she sat down beside him, he leaned close and muttered, "What happened?"

"Nothing," she whispered, and turned her attention to Éomer. As the servants wove amongst them, setting down platters of food, she asked, "What news is there from Aragorn? How were his negotiations?" Dîrbenn had told her that the army had been freed, but what of the slaves that Sauron had used to work the fields around the Sea of Nûrnen?

Éomer's eyes met hers, and then he said guardedly, "He has freed the army, as well as the Dark Lord's thralls. To them, he also gave the region of Nûrnen, where they might make a living by growing their own crops. No longer do they have to give what they reap to Sauron; Aragorn has not even asked for a tithe of their harvest."

A smile grew on Gúthwyn's face. As usual, Aragorn had done what was right. "Excellent!" she cried, taking a piece of bread. Though she had not worked at Nûrnen, she knew what it was like to be a slave—from the faint grin on Cobryn's face, she could tell that he thought Aragorn's decree just. Even if the slaves of Isengard had a less happy fate, she was glad for those in Mordor.

Lothíriel raised an eyebrow at her reaction. "I would not think it such a cause for celebration," she said, and looked at Éomer. "Has Elessar not even sent an overseer to manage things?"

"No," Éomer replied, and cut himself a piece of the meat before him. Once he had swallowed it, he elucidated, "Aragorn thought that they deserved to run their own lives, rather than a lord who knows naught of what they went through."

Frowning, Lothíriel asked, "How will they survive, then?"

"Why would they not?" Gúthwyn wanted to know, narrowing her eyes slightly.

A cool glance was sent in her direction. "Total freedom is not always the best course of action, especially when given to a large group of people who know not its consequences."

Gúthwyn saw Cobryn stiffen beside her. "What consequences?" she asked, her tone frosty enough to match Lothíriel's.

Éomer glanced worriedly between the two of them, but seemed reluctant to say anything. Gúthwyn knew he had not yet told Lothíriel of his sister's seven-year absence from their home, and did not want to reveal it at the table.

"Gúthwyn," Lothíriel said, looking as if she were resisting the urge to roll her eyes, "no one can deny that they know how to labor, but that does not mean they can run their own society."

"Why can they not?" Gúthwyn questioned, putting a hand under the table and clenching it into a fist.

Hammel and Haiweth's eyes were round, though neither of them were speaking. They seemed to sense that it was not their place to talk, but they were both following the debate intently.

"Perhaps we should discuss something else," Éomer said swiftly. "One of the horses gave birth to a foal today."

He might as well have been talking to a wall. Gúthwyn glanced at him momentarily, and then turned back to Lothíriel. "Why can they not?" she repeated.

"How many years do you think they have relied on the orders of others?" Lothíriel inquired, leaning forward slightly. "Do you truly believe that they be cut off from leadership and somehow keep themselves under control? Nor are they the most educated—"

"Excuse me," Gúthwyn said icily, openly glaring at the queen, "most of them were captured from perfectly civilized realms. They would be more than capable of keeping things structured."

Beside her, a muscle twitched in Cobryn's jaw.

"It is more difficult than you think," Lothíriel said, a touch of condescension in her voice. "Furthermore, even if there were one amongst them intelligent enough to rule, I can only imagine how nigh impossible it would be to get the others to listen. He would likely be slaughtered before he could say the word!"

Éomer's eyes were darting back and forth between the two of them uneasily.

"They are _not_ barbarians," Gúthwyn snapped, ignoring her brother. "The fact that they are slaves means only that there is a difference in rank between them and you. Do you think they chose that life?"

"I never said they did," Lothíriel replied smoothly. "You misunderstand me. What I am saying is that, since they know only how to work for another, it was not perhaps a wise choice to leave them without a ruler."

"You seem to have little faith in them," Gúthwyn snarled, the bitterness in her voice making Lothíriel's eyes widen somewhat, "but what do you know of them? What makes you so confident that they cannot maintain a society? What gives you the right to criticize them, when they deserve everything that Aragorn has given them?"

"And what do you know of slavery, Gúthwyn?"

Lothíriel's sentence hung in the air, the weight of it seeming to suffocate them. Haiweth had shrunk into her chair; Hammel's eyes were narrowed so much that they were mere slits; Cobryn was rigid in his chair, unmoving and unspeaking. Gúthwyn took a shaky breath.

"Enough," Éomer said suddenly. He slammed his hand down on the table. "Enough!"

Gúthwyn felt as if she could barely breathe. "Éomer," she managed, "will you excuse me for a moment?"

He nodded. "Of course." Lothíriel ignored her, taking a small bite out of her bread. Her cheeks were slightly pink.

Without another word, Gúthwyn rose from her chair and strode from the hall. Her hands were shaking with fury; she was barely able to steady them enough to push open the doors. As the cool evening air swept over her, she took several deep breaths. Anger at Lothíriel fueling her motions, she began pacing back and forth across the landing. _How dare she?_ she seethed to herself, clenching and unclenching her fists. _She knows nothing of what the life of a slave is like! How dare she scorn them?_

Yet she could not lash out at the queen… Lothíriel did not know what she had been through. Otherwise, she would have never spoken against her. She would have held her tongue, knowing how offensive the words would be. It was not her fault… _How could she be so ignorant?_ Gúthwyn demanded silently. _How could she think that those slaves do not merit their freedom?_

Abruptly she turned around, only to see the doors opening again. Cobryn stepped outside, his silhouette rimmed with moonlight. He did not speak as he came further out onto the landing.

"Cobryn," she said softly as she drew closer to him. If Lothíriel's words had affected her so, she could only imagine what they had done to Cobryn. He had been a slave for far longer than her, and experienced such horrors as were only conjured in her nightmares.

Now he was silent, staring unseeingly out across the plains of Rohan. Tentatively, Gúthwyn put a hand on his shoulder. It stiffened beneath her fingers. "Cobryn," she said again. "She did not know."

"Are you defending her?" Cobryn asked, turning sharply so that her hand slipped off of him.

"No!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, then lowered her voice. "Éomer has told her nothing of our pasts—she would have remained quiet, if he had."

"All the more reason why I am disgusted with her," Cobryn said, "for she opined without restriction, and those are her true feelings on the subject."

"Maybe she only spoke thus because it was I who argued against her," Gúthwyn mused quietly, wrapping her arms around herself.

Cobryn shot her a sharp glance. "She does not seem too fond of you," he said.

Gúthwyn sighed, bewildered. "I do not understand it! I have done nothing to her." Then she paused, and realized that she had not spoken correctly. There was one incident, months ago… "Do you think she might be angry with me because I beat her in sparring?" Guilt washed over her as she remembered their match. "I did not mean to knock her over like that, I—"

"Nay, it is not that," Cobryn interrupted her, his face thoughtful. But traces of anger still smoldered within his eyes, and his nails were digging so fiercely into his palms that she thought they would start bleeding. "She has looked askance at you ever since she became the queen."

"Before that," Gúthwyn said unexpectedly, recalling her meeting with the woman. "Why?" She could not fathom the queen's dislike of her—what had she done, if such feelings had taken root before they had sparred?

Cobryn sighed. "I know not the answer to that question. Perhaps in time, it will go away. Or she may soon reveal to you what it is that has vexed her."

Yet a strange foreboding within Gúthwyn told her that this was not to be the case.

* * *

The next day, Meduseld was a subdued household. Lothíriel went out of her way to avoid Gúthwyn, and Éomer did not seem to know what to say to either of them. Hammel and Haiweth were also more serious than usual, detecting the tensions building up like a growing thunderstorm. The clouds were brewing on the horizon, foretelling an outbreak of discord within the Golden Hall. 

But Gúthwyn was thinking little of the future when she sat down for dinner that night, greeting Éomer somewhat cheerily and saying a stiff hello to Lothíriel. Instead, her thoughts were turned to the previous night's argument. She had hardly slept at all afterwards; memories of her stay in Isengard had swirled around her like a blinding fog, and she had woken up several times in terror of the Warg's eyes staring at her.

Trying not to recall the cage, she pulled the breadbasket over to her plate and took out a slice. She was even less hungry than usual.

"Éomer," Lothíriel began, smiling at him, "you never told us if there was other news from Gondor. How fare King Elessar and Queen Arwen? And what of your sister and her husband?"

"As far as I know, Éowyn is well," Éomer replied, at which Gúthwyn felt the corners of her lips tug upwards. "I am hoping that she and Faramir will be able to visit soon, though she seems quite content in Ithilien."

"I am glad she is happy," Lothíriel said, her words sounding genuine. Gúthwyn reflected that it was only with her that the queen seemed to adopt her chilly tone.

"So am I," Éomer answered fondly. "She deserves to be."

Gúthwyn tried not to think of Faramir, and ate a small piece of her bread. Dismally, she realized that she still had over half of the slice to finish.

"And Elessar? He is well?" Lothíriel inquired. Aside from her and Éomer, the rest of the table was silent. Haiweth was picking at her stew, and even Hammel was stirring his broth around aimlessly. Cobryn ate normally, though his eyes were guarded, and she could tell that the conversation from last night was not far from his mind.

"Aye, he is," Éomer responded. "Now there is calm in the land, with only the occasional border skirmish to trouble his realm. He had been hoping that the negotiations with the Mordor army would finish most of what needed to be done to ensure peace."

"So he has pardoned them all?" Lothíriel asked, tactfully avoiding mention of the slaves.

Éomer nodded. "The Haradrim and the Easterlings had to swear oaths, with the promise of death if they broke them, but those whom Sauron had captured were able to walk free."

Gúthwyn hid a grin at this, thankful that Aragorn was so just a king.

"Even the commanders?" Lothíriel wanted to know, her voice skeptical.

"Yes," Éomer confirmed, and here he glanced at Gúthwyn. "Apparently the leader of the human army had been killed beforehand; only his second-in-command was left."

A wave of nausea rolled through Gúthwyn, and for a moment she thought she would be sick as she remembered how her hands had slipped on Haldor's blood. There had been so much of it… and his eyes had been open… _Do not travel down this path!_ she warned herself. _You will not be able to sleep tonight if you do!_

"The man was not punished?" Lothíriel asked dubiously. "Should he not have had to serve time in prison, to make an example for his followers?"

"They wanted to fight no more than he did," Éomer said heavily. "Many of them were forced to murder their own people, maybe even friends or family."

Gúthwyn swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. Poor Beregil, who had always been so kind to her; he had been killed for it, killed by his very brother. Nothing had she ever seen crueler than his death—he had been utterly helpless, unable to do anything as his body was destroyed for the crime of trying to help someone.

"I would have thought that Sauron would have hired as his commander the evilest one of them all," Lothíriel mused.

Again, Éomer's eyes flicked to Gúthwyn, though she kept her face carefully devoid of emotion. _Concentrate on your bread,_ she told herself, and tried to ignore everything else at the table besides her plate. She failed miserably.

"As the War went on, he lost many of his followers."

Lothíriel gave a faint shudder. "Imagine the damage his army could have done… though they be pardoned, I would not trust any of them."

"Not even," Gúthwyn said, very quietly and very seriously, "those who were conscripted against their will?"

For an instant, Lothíriel's eyes flashed, though none else at the table besides Cobryn marked it. "Not even them," she replied. "Who knows what horrible things they have done? My father told me that there were those amongst them who killed for sport, and would have violated any woman who crossed their path."

"Lothíriel," Éomer said sharply. Gúthwyn's face was burning in shame.

The queen glanced at her husband in puzzlement. "I speak not of the slaves," she said, "but of those who served the Dark Lord and slaughtered innocent people!"

"Be as it may," Gúthwyn retorted, "not all of them did it willingly!"

"Well," Lothíriel said delicately, "I suppose not." Gúthwyn knew that she was far less eager to press the topic, now that Éomer had voiced his disapproval. The queen cast around for something to say. "Éomer, who was the leader Aragorn spoke with? Did he bring any troops out to the Pelennor Fields?"

Looking relieved that they had navigated away from the general subject of Sauron's human army, Éomer said, "I know not his name. He was in charge of the reserve troops, the ones that were waiting behind the Black Gate. Yet he was only the second-in-command."

_He should have been Borogor…_ Gúthwyn thought, morosely tearing off a piece of bread. Halfway through she lost the will to eat it, and let it fall back down onto her plate.

Lothíriel's face was dark. "That may be so, but my father has always said that, while the leaders are more outright evil, the second-in-commands are by far the worst. They are the ones who carry out the orders, and do their lord's bidding."

Something snapped in Gúthwyn. Banging her fist on the table, she leaped to her feet, towering over Lothíriel. "Look at this," she snarled, and leaned forward. In one swift motion, she yanked up the sleeve of her gown, revealing the Eye of Sauron that had been branded upon the inside of her wrist.

Everyone at the table stared at her in shock, but none were so appalled as Lothíriel. She flinched visibly, her mouth dropping open as she gaped at the sign of the Dark Lord.

"Do you know what this is?" Gúthwyn demanded, bitter hatred filling her words. "Do you know what this is, Lothíriel?"

The queen did not speak; she was too disgusted by the sight of the brand to say anything.

"This is what they marked me with when I was brought into Sauron's army!" Gúthwyn cried, her eyes blazing. "And do you know what I was before that? Do you know where I lived my days before I came to Mordor?"

Cobryn looked straight at her.

"I was a _slave,_" Gúthwyn hissed. "A lowly, filthy _slave,_ very much like the ones you scorned last night! How dare you look down upon them? You who have been sheltered from the first day of your life, you who have never experienced a day's discomfort—have you ever worked from dawn until dusk for a master who never pays you, who thinks you are disposable and will take your life if it pleases them? Have you, Lothíriel?"

For the first time, Lothíriel was afraid of her. She had pushed herself as far back on the bench as she could, still staring at the brand.

"No," Gúthwyn spat. "You have no idea what it is like! You have no idea what it was like to work all day and get _this_"—she jabbed at her bread—"to eat, every single day, with no reprieve or rest or anything! To see your friends die because they were at the wrong place at the wrong time, or simply because someone thought it would be amusing! And you have the nerve to say they should not now rule themselves?"

"I—"

"Be quiet," Gúthwyn snapped, surprising even herself. Yet she was filled with wrath, and when Lothíriel's eyes widened in outrage and shock, she did not apologize. "And tonight… tonight you say that the soldiers in Sauron's army kill for fun, and rape women? I was the only woman in the entire camp! What do you know about these men? What do you know about the _hours_ they trained, the _hours_ that they spent practicing in the heat until they were ready to collapse from exhaustion?"

Beside her, Haiweth was shaking. Hammel put an arm around her, but was too dumbfounded by Gúthwyn's speech to do aught else.

Memories were swelling within Gúthwyn, of swords clashing and sweat dripping down her brow… of two blades illuminated by a single torch, their owners weaving and darting around each other… No, she could not lose control of herself here! "You know _nothing!_" she all but shrieked, pounding her fist on the table. "Innocent men died in Mordor—a man was murdered by his own brother because he refused to torture _me!_"

Éomer's eyes were wide as he beheld her. She had never screamed like this in front of him; only once had her façade of calmness dissolved in his presence.

"Do you know who the brother was?" Gúthwyn asked, leaning even closer to Lothíriel. Her voice was quieter, but at the same time it was wilder, more hysterical. She could see herself reflected in Lothíriel's eyes, and knew how maniacal she looked. "Do you?"

"N-No," Lothíriel whispered.

"He was the second-in-command of Sauron's army," Gúthwyn replied softly, though her body was shaking in fury and unshed tears. "And I loved him."

There was a silence, so loud that the noise roared in her ears until she could hear nothing else. "You could never find a more decent man than him," she choked out. "Without him, I would have died my first day. You lie about the second-in-commands, you know nothing—you are ignorant and haughty, disdainful of men who bled and _died_ for a fight not their own, simply because they were on the wrong side!"

Then she realized what she had said to her queen; she realized, too, that tears were brimming in her eyes, threatening to spill over if she but moved the slightest bit. "Do not ever speak to me again about the slaves and soldiers of Mordor," she managed, and looked straight into Lothíriel's eyes. "Ever!"

The queen shook her head quickly.

_By the Valar,_ Gúthwyn thought suddenly, _what have I done?_

Haiweth was crying softly, trying to stifle her tears with her napkin and Hammel's shirt. Gúthwyn's wide eyes fell on Éomer. He was staring at her in horror, his food lying forgotten on his plate.

"I-I am so sorry…" She had insulted the queen, her brother's wife; she had called her ignorant and haughty, and accused her of stupidity; she had betrayed herself and revealed to Lothíriel one of her most closely guarded secrets. "E-Excuse me," she managed, and fled from the room.


	42. The Justification of Lothíriel

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Forty-Two:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Forty-Two**

In the early hours of the morning Lothíriel awoke, her eyelashes fluttering open only to be dazzled by several bright rays of sun. For a time she did not move, but rather allowed her gaze to drift over the room that had become her haven in the year since her arrival in Rohan. Although at first it had been sparse, with only a few items of furniture, Éomer had been more than generous in encouraging her to decorate it as she pleased.

Thinking of her husband, the corners of her mouth turned downwards. Cautiously she turned to him, but was greeted only by the jagged battle scars adorning his back. She longed to reach out and touch them, perhaps to rouse him and receive a kiss as her reward, but remembering the events of last night she did not dare. He had hardly spoken a word to her since dinner.

Her mood darkened. She was certain that Éomer held her to blame for what had transpired between her and Gúthwyn. How could he not? Gúthwyn was his _baby_ sister. Just hearing the affectionate term caused her stomach to clench. In his mind, she was incapable of harming a fly, innocent and naïve… Lothíriel could not recall how often he had described her with that last adjective.

Yet naïve was not the woman who had screamed at her last night, who had wrenched up the sleeve of her gown to reveal that hideous brand befouling her wrist. Not she who admitted to having fallen in love with a man, she who had two children likely from that very union. Lothíriel could not imagine anyone disgracing themselves more.

Her unease must have filtered through the sheets, for Éomer began stirring then, out of habit rolling over and placing his hand on her stomach. As a warm glow spread to her heart, the queen temporarily forgot about Gúthwyn. Words could not describe how happy she was to finally be carrying a child, to know that in less than a year she would be able to cradle her first-born to her breast.

As Éomer's grogginess dissipated, his fingers moved upwards. She could not help but shiver as his thumb gently caressed her lip, accompanied by the low murmur of her name.

"Good morning, husband," she whispered back, glad that he no longer seemed to be angry with her.

"How is our baby?" was his husky response, the words reverberating in her ear.

_Our baby._ Lothíriel grinned and replied, "Perhaps you should feel for yourself."

Éomer's hand drifted back down to her stomach, sliding a bit lower before coming to a stop. "When do you think it will start kicking?"

"Hopefully soon," she murmured, having anticipated the event ever since she realized she was with child. In the meantime, however, the warmth of Éomer's palm on her skin was more than enough to keep her content.

The two of them lay there for awhile, but all too soon Éomer lifted his head and met her eyes. The seriousness with which his face was suddenly set put her on her guard. He meant to speak with her about what had happened.

Unfortunately, she was right. "Lothíriel," he started, sighing. "About last night…"

Lothíriel stiffened. _No,_ she thought. _Please, not now._

"There are some… some things I need to discuss with you," Éomer said, taking a deep breath. "Ah… I am sorry for not telling you about Gúthwyn's past."

The Valar knew she had asked him about it after hearing a rumor in the washing circles—yet he had withdrawn from her, saying that it was not his place to disclose what had happened to his sister. He had needed to "protect her." In other words, he had not trusted her enough not to tell anyone else.

"This was not your fault," she nevertheless said, ignoring the lump forming in her throat. It was only afterward that Éomer thought of informing her about Gúthwyn, only after the woman had made a scene in front of everyone. Judging by the reactions of Cobryn and the children, it seemed that Lothíriel had been the last one to learn about her servitude.

"Nay, it was," Éomer answered, shaking his head. "If I had but told you the barest details, yesterday's events never would have occurred. You must understand… Gúthwyn is my baby sister, and I would not have her harmed for the world."

_Of course,_ she thought bitterly. _Cosset your sister and keep your wife in the dark—is this how the Rohirrim treat their women?_

The next instant she regretted her feelings. She should not be so prejudiced towards her own subjects, even if their customs were strange and she could not comprehend a word they were saying. She was already jaded enough with her father's people.

"I would not have told anyone," she muttered, surprised that it hurt so much to be excluded from her husband's problems.

"I know," Éomer swiftly assured her, now stroking her hair. Lothíriel found herself wishing that he would stop: her mood was deteriorating with every syllable he uttered. She briefly closed her eyes as he added, "Yet there is more I must consider with Gúthwyn."

_Why?_ Lothíriel wanted to demand of him.

What she said was: "She is a grown woman, not a child. She can take care of herself."

"No, Lothíriel, she cannot," Éomer replied softly, everything about his tone telling her that she could not possibly understand—and that he was not even going to attempt to elaborate upon his words.

"Then why are you always the one doing it for her?" Lothíriel wanted to know, swallowing. When it came to the women in his life, it seemed that Gúthwyn was the one whom he spent the most time worrying about, rather than the wife who was carrying the heir to his kingdom. Lothíriel's voice was small, almost desperate as she asked, "Why can you not marry her off to a decent man?"

"It is not so simple as that," Éomer said, but he did not explain why. Lothíriel bit her lip to keep herself from screaming in frustration. A part of her was beginning to loathe Gúthwyn for always intruding on their conversations, even when she was not present. Éomer was so concerned about her that it felt like he was ignoring Lothíriel, the woman he loved.

It was not as if Gúthwyn needed protection, either. Given the choice, the vast majority of the soldiers likely would have decided to defend their king's sister rather than their queen. She had so many admirers amongst the civilians that Lothíriel could never hope to compete, especially since she was terrible at speaking their language. Some of them, like her champion Tun, practically worshipped the ground she walked on.

So what had Gúthwyn ever done to merit her brother's anxiety? Yes, she had been a slave somewhere, and then a member of Sauron's army in her seven years' disappearance—but obviously nothing terrible had happened to her, other than the death of the man she loved. Lothíriel's father had always described the horrors of Mordor as enough to drive a person mad, yet Gúthwyn was certainly not insane. Instead, she had the unswerving adoration of all the Rohirrim, and more friends than Lothíriel had ever attained in her lifetime.

"Lothíriel?"

As her husband's voice met her ears, she realized that she had been lost in her dark musings. "Yes?" she inquired dully.

"Do you recall how she spoke of being a slave?" Éomer asked gently.

Lothíriel nodded. How could she forget?

"She was taken to… to Isengard when she was but twelve," Éomer informed her. His face was grim as he added, "We thought she would be dead within days."

The queen's eyes widened in shock. Isengard, the stronghold of Saruman the White? She had never suspected such circumstances… however, she had also not anticipated Gúthwyn's time as a soldier in Mordor. Where, then, did that leave the children? How did they fit into the puzzle?

"I-I did not know," she murmured.

"There is something else, too," Éomer said, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "It may not be my place to tell you this, but I do not wish to have another misunderstanding. You are aware that Cobryn and Gúthwyn are good friends, right?"

Lothíriel nodded.

"They met," Éomer said, "in Isengard."

Her eyes widened. "He was a slave, also?" Shrewd, intelligent Cobryn, a man cleverer than most politicians, the person she had singled out as worthy of being her opponent—a thrall? She remembered her words from two nights ago, about their lack of education, and felt mortified.

"Aye," Éomer confirmed, nodding. "Most of his friends perished when Isengard was flooded by the Ents. Only Lebryn, a man now employed as a soldier here, survived with him."

Lebryn… It took a moment for Lothíriel to place her finger on the name, but soon she thought of the cocky man who seemed to be surrounded by women whenever she saw him. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. Such behavior would not have been allowed at her father's court. Though she would never say so to Éomer, she was unable to understand why he tolerated people like Lebryn.

"Lothíriel?"

She had been lost in her thoughts. Blinking, she focused back on her husband. "What is it?" she questioned softly, hoping that he would turn the conversation away from Gúthwyn and her friends.

Yet it was not to be. "I know this is a big favor that I am asking of you," Éomer started, holding her gaze seriously, "but do you think you might… apologize to her?"

He had not just said that. Disbelief spread over Lothíriel, so that for a long time she could only stare at him in shock. "Why?" she asked numbly, once she had gotten her voice back.

Awkwardly, Éomer explained, "I know it was not your fault, but I really want the two of you to get along…" He trailed off, and then continued, "I had hoped that my sister and my wife would be friends."

It was a small, unconscious, and even petty detail, but the fact that he had said "my sister" before "my wife" made Lothíriel feel as if she were inferior to Gúthwyn. _Am I not already?_ she thought dourly. _She has won the hearts of the people, and all the men do her bidding… whereas I am all but capable of talking to them! Now my own husband puts her in front of me?_

"As you wish, Éomer," she muttered, and while she smiled at him, she could not have felt unhappier. _She should be the one apologizing to me!_ she wanted to yell at him. _She was the one who humiliated me in front of everyone on the training grounds, and then laughed about it with you afterwards! And she was the one who was screaming at me last night, and made her own child cry!_

Yet she had long ago wrenched her heart from her sleeve. Detecting none of her misery, Éomer grinned as he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "You are wonderful," he said. "Everyday, I thank the Valar you are my wife."

_Ilúvatar,_ Lothíriel thought as he rolled out of bed and began to dress, _must all men be so clueless?_

Absent-mindedly she watched the most oblivious of them all. On any other occasion, she would have been pleased with the sight of his bare back, the muscles rippling as he bent down to pull on some leggings, but now she just wanted to be alone. Nethiel would come once he had left—even if the girl was a bit of a fool sometimes, she absorbed nearly everything that Lothíriel told her, and was the only one with whom she could safely gossip about the court of Dol Amroth.

A soft sigh escaped her. She missed her family. She missed her home, the sound of the waves crashing upon the shore—_I bet Gúthwyn has never seen the Sea before, and would be frightened of it—_and her control over the day-to-day life of an ever-changing court. Here in Rohan, there was none of the social hierarchy that she had become used to. It was not a place where the wrong word in the wrong tone of voice could ruin a career, or where there was a whole language in how the women held their fans or glanced at each other. Lothíriel had learned to become an expert in society's ways, but here such skills were useless.

"Shall I see you at breakfast?" Éomer asked then, and she looked up to see that he had finished dressing.

"I might lie here for awhile," Lothíriel replied, suddenly not in the mood for eating with him.

He nodded, coming over to the bed and placing a kiss on her brow. "Enjoy yourself," he said, and raised an eyebrow suggestively. "Perhaps I might join you later…"

"I am not sure such talk is entirely appropriate!" she exclaimed, praying that he would not return. She could not imagine anything she was less willing to do.

"You and your propriety," he said fondly, kissing her chastely on the cheek. "Have a good day."

"You, too," she responded.

Once Éomer had left the room, Lothíriel did not bother disguising her discontent. No matter what she did in an attempt to improve her situation, it always seemed to backfire. She had tried to make friendly overtures towards Gúthwyn, but they had only ended in her mortification. As usual, her husband's sister had come out on top, besting her in their duel. Lothíriel would not have minded so much had it not been painfully obvious that her adversary was purposefully being easy on her. Yet worst of all was how Éomer had laughed at her afterwards—and the pragmatic tone with which he had addressed her when he realized that her blade had not been dulled.

Tears threatened to blur her eyes, ones that she had fiercely held back on that day. She could not let them overwhelm her now. Crying was weak and unacceptable. Nay, she had to quell such emotions.

Despite her best efforts, Gúthwyn continued to invade her mind. _How is it that _I_ am responsible for her losing her temper?_ she demanded silently. _Especially when no one told me that she was a slave?_

However, that was only the surface of her problems with the woman. The things that she loathed most in the world were being humiliated, outmaneuvered, and forced to admit a wrong. Without even trying, Gúthwyn had managed to do all three. _How does she do it?_ Lothíriel wondered. _She could threaten me in court no more than a babe could, and yet she still somehow triumphs!_

Her mind drifted back to her first sight of Éomund's daughter. She had originally thought her to be a servant, as her garb was plain and her stature so diminished that one could easily overlook her. Yet this mistake had been swiftly corrected by Amrothos, who as usual had an eye for all the single women within a five-league circle of him. "There is King Éomer's sister," he had said, leaning towards her with a mischievous grin. "She has two children already, but not a husband in sight. Intriguing, no?"

Lothíriel had certainly thought so. Her suspicions were only confirmed when she had casually mentioned the matter to Éomer whilst they were dancing. Without the merest hint of accusation in her tone, she had inquired as to who had sired the children. The king's face had tightened instantaneously, and his answer had been abrupt when he denied Gúthwyn being a mother. There was no mention of any man. Like the rest of his subjects, Éomer was not, by nature, a liar—yet she knew he would do anything to protect his _baby _sister.

In Dol Amroth, it was bad enough to be found in an amorous embrace with the person you loved. To have given birth to not one, but two children and not be married to anyone was cause for complete social exile. Gúthwyn had never spoken a word to Lothíriel, yet the queen had known what sort of person she could expect. Ensuing observations and encounters had only ascertained the scandalous.

To be sure, her trembling demeanor and pathetic naiveté did not give one the impression that her mindset was anything less than prudish. She often recoiled at displays of public attention, and her clothing was so conservative that even the strictest member of Dol Amroth society could have found no fault in it. However, all such pretenses disappeared whenever she was with the soldiers. She was perfectly at ease when entertaining them, having no qualms about coming into contact with their bodies. In the days when she had seduced her champion, she had hugged him, kissed him, and held his hand knowing that all the world could see her. It just did not fit.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. "My lady?" a tentative voice called.

Lothíriel smiled, and sat up as she called, "Come in."

Nethiel stepped inside of the room, looking as usual like a puppy eager to please its master. "What are your plans for today, my lady?"

A frown crossed over the queen's face. "Éomer would have me apologize to Gúthwyn."

An indignant expression came over Nethiel. "Whatever for? She is of lesser rank than you—why should you beg her pardon?"

This was exactly what Lothíriel liked about her maid. Once it was clear whom Lothíriel disapproved of, the younger woman did not hesitate to put down the victim whenever she could. It certainly appeased the vindictive part of the queen, and it often came in handy: being one of the maids, Nethiel heard all the gossip of the other servants. If there were any rumors to be had about those whom Lothíriel disliked, she was sure to hear of it before anyone else.

Now, the woman provided a chance to give her side of the story to someone who would not belittle her for her mistakes. "I shall tell you while I am dressing," Lothíriel said, trying not to show how relieved she was.

With that, she rose gracefully from her bed. Immediately, Nethiel asked, "What gown would you like to wear today?" She went over to the wardrobe and flung it open, revealing a dazzling display of expensive dresses and fabric such as was rarely seen in all of Middle-earth. Lothíriel took pride on having an outfit for every occasion, since it was considered a crime to wear the same gown too often in Dol Amroth. As the daughter of Prince Imrahil, she had no excuse for such a blunder.

However, Lothíriel was only mildly comforted to know that Gúthwyn perhaps had a tenth of what she had. It did not seem to matter, if Éomer was paying more attention to his sister than his wife. _Gúthwyn this, Gúthwyn that,_ she thought irritably. Nor did it help matters that the woman was constantly sick—and each time, Éomer stayed at her bedside until she recovered, which was sometimes not for weeks. If she had suspected Gúthwyn capable of mischief, she would have believed her to be doing it on purpose.

"My lady?"

Lothíriel was snapped out of her dreary thoughts. _Concentrate,_ she told herself sternly. _Do not let your guard down!_

For a moment she paused, recalling how she had learned this lesson. It was not one of the more pleasant memories of her life—then again, between the time she had been presented to the court and her first meeting with Éomer, there were precious few of those. Nay, she had everything to gain by concealing her thoughts from her maid. Her old companions had merited some thanks for teaching her this.

Quickly, not wanting to seem distracted, she said, "Perhaps the light blue one." Even though its design was simple, it flattered her figure, with the additional bonus of being a favorite of Éomer's.

"An excellent choice," Nethiel praised, rushing forward to take it off its hanger. "Then again, my lady, you never make mistakes."

Lothíriel could not help but smile at this bit of obsequiousness.

"Now," Nethiel began, aiding Lothíriel in shrugging out of her nightgown, "what is this I hear of you apologizing to Gúthwyn?"

As the maid helped dress her, select some jewelry, and do her hair, Lothíriel gave the full details of the night's events. Nethiel, well trained in the practice of listening, gasped in all the right places, winced whenever appropriate, and became downright angry when required.

"Well, it just goes to show that _she_ has no sense of restraint," Nethiel fumed, though her hands were still running the brush calmly through Lothíriel's hair. "What awful things to say to you!"

Lothíriel felt goose bumps appear on her arms. Try as she might to forget it, she could not help but think of how wild Gúthwyn's eyes had been as she screamed at her. They had been almost savage-like in their fury; for a terrible moment, she had thought the woman would attack her.

"Do you think she was telling the truth?" Nethiel questioned, shuddering.

"She showed me that horrible mark on her wrist," Lothíriel replied, feeling nauseous at the mention of it. "And I have heard that she disappeared for seven years, though whenever I asked Éomer he would not confirm or deny anything."

"What of the man she loved?" Nethiel inquired, as usual turning to the romantic part of the story. "Where is he now? Is he the father of the children?"

"I know not," Lothíriel said, highly curious about the matter. "But she spoke of him in the past tense… he must have died, then, in the War."

Such was her resentment towards Gúthwyn that she felt no pity for her.

Evidently, neither did Nethiel. "Serves her right," she sniffed. "Imagine—how old was she when she returned?"

"She was in Rohan during the War," Lothíriel said, recalling how Éomer had told her that she had fought at the Pelennor Fields. "That would make her nineteen."

"Imagine being her age, and having two children; yet no marriage in sight!"

"Éomer has always told me that they were not hers," Lothíriel replied automatically, though she could not help but wonder at the truth of this. Supposedly Hammel was eleven, and Haiweth eight. However, ages could easily be lied about, and Gúthwyn certainly made no secret of her fierce love and devotion towards the children. Now that it was revealed that she had given her heart to a man in Mordor, it seemed almost impossible that she remained a virgin… and childless.

"Maybe she did not tell him the truth," Nethiel suggested. "After all, what a disgrace it would be!"

"In Dol Amroth, yes," Lothíriel agreed, and sighed a little. Somehow, even if it turned out that Gúthwyn had given birth to the children at such a young age, she doubted that the Rohirrim would turn their backs on her.

Nethiel made a noise of denunciation. "And you said she was the only woman in the camp?"

"I did," Lothíriel murmured. Under such circumstances, Gúthwyn could not have stayed pure in her service to the Dark Lord. Thus, it seemed that the queen had at last found a fault in the apparently perfect sister of Éomer. What surprised her was that no one else had come to the same conclusion. Did the Rohirrim truly think she was that innocent? If only…

_No,_ she thought the next instant. _When you left Dol Amroth behind, you were abandoning the schemes as well! Those were done for survival, yet here you are the queen!_

_And still Gúthwyn is more loved by the people, just as your brothers were,_ another side of her argued. _You know she is. Even your own husband places more value on her needs than yours!_

"Just think," Nethiel crowed, "of how unscrupulous she must be! My lady, the scandal it would bring—the king's own sister, shown to be a harlot!"

"No!" Lothíriel said sharply, holding up her hand. Nethiel was instantly quelled. "I will not go so far as that. Éomer does love her, even if I do not. And he would not go untouched by the gossip; for that matter, nor would I. It cannot be risked."

"Begging your pardon, my lady," Nethiel said sincerely, and curtsied.

Yet as her maid continued brushing her hair, Lothíriel reflected that there were some things that _could_ be risked. Gúthwyn was a whore; there was no denying that. And in Rohan, no one knew of the rumors from Dol Amroth that had dogged their queen. For once, she had the full upper hand, with nothing to take the advantage away from her. Who was she to let such an opportunity pass by? That mistake she had once made, long ago, and had paid the price for that folly.

She was tired of being a person to be seen, not spoken to, by the commoners; she was tired of Éomer setting her aside in favor of Gúthwyn, whenever his sister showed the slightest sign of discomfort; she was tired of not understanding her own people, of having to rely on translators; she was tired of being second in everyone's heart to Gúthwyn. Even with the imminent arrival of her child, nothing had changed. The people were still loyal to Gúthwyn, ready to lay down their lives for her.

The prattling of Nethiel turned to a distant humming in her ears, and Lothíriel sunk deeper into bitterness.

* * *

As usual, Gúthwyn awoke well past noon, immediately leaving the Golden Hall to train with the men. Lothíriel withheld her apology and watched the woman go, narrowing her eyes in distaste. In her younger days, she had begged her father to allow her to practice with his soldiers, but he had always denied her, saying that while he had no objections to her using a sword he did not wish her reputation to be ruined. Now, she understood why: for a lady to be in such close contact with warriors, regardless of whether she intended to marry one of them, made one seriously question the woman's morality—and Gúthwyn's was already dubious enough. 

Whilst her husband's sister was brawling with his army, Lothíriel met with her tutor to continue her instruction in Rohirric. It was the part of her day that she most dreaded. Though Eanfríd was patient with her, it was rare that she made progress. The tongue of her people was something that she could not grasp, no matter how hard she tried. It was too guttural, too harsh; she mangled pronunciations, was unable to even attempt others, and often forgot the proper word for something. More than once, Eanfríd appeared as if he was restraining himself from either yelling or laughing at her.

By the end of the lesson, Lothíriel could safely say that she had not gone a single step further on her way to speaking Éomer's language. Luckily, he was at a meeting with his advisors, and thus was not around to ask her how the session had been. Normally she would have joined the council, but a masochistic urge prompted her to head down to the washing circles with the week's laundry.

It was a complete disaster. The women, who had been gossiping happily as she approached them, all fell silent upon her arrival. The few hesitant conversations that occurred thereafter were all in Rohirric, and though she listened closely Lothíriel could only garner that a horse had attacked a flower. Clearly, she needed to work on her vocabulary. Yet when she ventured to ask for an explanation, they all gave her odd looks, unsure of what she was saying.

After that, she gave up. Sometimes, she wondered why she even bothered trying. Her people obviously felt intruded upon whenever she was present. Their laughter was stifled, their ribaldry curbed, and their postures stiffened. She did not belong in this society; then again, since when had anyone outside of her family ever been unswervingly loyal to her? Her brothers had always had their squires, the servants who knew better than to spread information about their lords—whereas all of Lothíriel's maids had been fired shortly after her fifteenth birthday.

The queen's slender hands, holding the container of freshly-laundered clothes, turned white as they clenched the basket. Since then, she had found Nethiel, who if exceedingly dimwitted had passed several tests that Lothíriel herself had devised to determine how trustworthy her servant was. There was no need to remember the others. Holding her head high, she walked the rest of the way back to Meduseld.

Her mood only worsened when she saw a familiar, unfairly slender figure in front of her. Not noticing her proximity to the queen, Gúthwyn was talking animatedly to Elfhelm. The Marshal's attention was fixed on her, showing all the deference with which Lothíriel had never been treated by her father's friends. His hand even hovered protectively behind her as they made their way up the stairs, ready to catch her if she lost her footing.

Neither of them saw their queen as they entered the hall; one of the guards had to lunge forward and grab the door so that it did not slam in her face. Her cheeks flaming, Lothíriel nodded at him and made her way inside, only to nearly run into Elfhelm and Gúthwyn.

She was greeted cordially enough by both of them, yet Gúthwyn's jaw tightened and she looked noticeably upset. Still speaking Rohirric, she said something to Elfhelm and gave him a parting smile. As soon as the Marshal bade her farewell, she left the hall without a backwards glance.

"Are you searching for Éomer?" Lothíriel attempted in his language.

Elfhelm burst out laughing.

"I am sorry, my lady," he spoke in the Common Tongue after a moment, still choking on his mirth. "I think I know what you meant, but that is certainly not how it came out!"

Humiliated, at the same time furious with herself, Lothíriel asked, "What did I say?"

Shaking his head, Elfhelm replied, "Éomer would cut out my tongue if I told you. But if your question was what I believe it was, nay, I am not trying to find him. I was escorting Gúthwyn back."

Gúthwyn, Gúthwyn, always Gúthwyn—did these people schedule their lives around her?

Lothíriel tried not to let her frustration show as she excused herself. Should she not have been used to this by now? When she was younger, her brothers had always had their friends and admirers, while she had had to make do with her books. _Small good that did me,_ she thought angrily. _All it did was allow me to listen in on Father's council sessions!_ It had not merited the honor of being able to speak, not until her family had gone off to war and there was no other alternative but to have her rule in their stead.

Yet in Rohan, she had thought she would be guaranteed a fresh start. With a loving husband at her side and the promise of being far away from certain members of her social circle, she had made the foolish mistake of assuming that the people would accept her. They had, but only because she was their official queen. In their hearts, Gúthwyn had already held that position ever since her return.

Tears blurred her eyes, but angrily she forced them away. Her restraint came not a moment too soon, for she met Nethiel in the hall. The maid's arms were full of cleaning supplies.

"My lady," Nethiel said with a half-curtsy. "Would you like me to put away your clothes?"

"Yes, please," Lothíriel replied. "I shall leave them on my bed." As much as she hated to do it, now was the time to grit her teeth and apologize to Gúthwyn: the woman would be alone, for once not surrounded by companions or children. Perhaps she could briefly flex her old muscles and turn the tide in her favor—would it not be a refreshing change to hear Gúthwyn asking the queen's forgiveness for once?

_Well, we shall see,_ she told herself as she and Nethiel went their separate ways. Once she had deposited the laundry basket, she returned to the throne room, only to cross it and enter the passage leading to Gúthwyn's quarters. As she walked, Lothíriel debated what was appropriate to say to the woman. Asking about the dead lover, no matter how strong her curiosity, was off limits. She would have to find about him some other way. Did Éomer know who he was?

The door had been left ajar. Lothíriel drew closer and then stopped: she had caught a glimpse of the mysterious black book. Long had she wondered what lay in its pages. It had the inexplicable power to make Gúthwyn miserable, for every time she was seen with it there were tears in her eyes. It was one of the several oddities about his sister that Éomer refused to explain.

Not wanting to skulk around like an eavesdropping servant, Lothíriel lifted a fist and rapped sharply on the doorframe. A strange kind of satisfaction worked its way through her as Gúthwyn gasped, jumping nearly a foot in the air before seeing Lothíriel.

"I-I did not hear you follow me," the woman breathed, quickly putting her hands behind her back. The book disappeared from sight, but it was still very much on Lothíriel's mind as she stepped into the room. She marked that Gúthwyn's eyes contracted slightly, as if in fear.

"Forgive me," Lothíriel said airily. "I have been told that I am light of foot; I should have shown myself sooner. However, I did not wish to disturb you."

"N-No, it is fine," Gúthwyn replied, her chest still rising and falling rapidly. "Ah… why have you come?"

"To apologize for what happened last night," Lothíriel said.

The woman's eyes widened, and her tiny body tensed.

"I did not know that you had been a slave," Lothíriel continued, putting a small emphasis on the last word, "or a member of Sauron's army. Had I been informed, I would never have spoken. I hope we can put this behind us, and maybe become friends once more."

She may not have been able to win people over, but she was certainly capable of placating them. Gúthwyn visibly relaxed, shaking her head. "No, I am sorry," she responded. "I should not have… I should not have yelled at you. It was uncalled for."

Lothíriel felt the fleeting sense of triumph. All it had taken was a few falsely spoken words, and she had managed to turn the tables so that Gúthwyn was the one apologizing to her. Her old skills, the lessons of court strategy and exploitation, were all coming back to her memory. _Not bad,_ she thought, _for someone who has had no practice in close to a year._

"Well, I shall leave you to change," Lothíriel said cheerily. "Have fun on the training grounds."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn answered, looking confused as she always did when the queen spoke kindly to her.

As Lothíriel stepped out into the hallway, the smile wiped off her face, and she continued down the passage with no trace of the happiness she had shown Gúthwyn. Though she had achieved a victory over her husband's sister, she could not help but feel slightly guilty as she imagined what Éomer would say, had he known what she was doing.

_Remember when you always aimed to please others?_ she harshly told herself a second later. _How did that turn out for you?_

A flash, an old memory of being surrounded by unfriendly faces, arose to haunt her before she buried her recollections and kept walking.

_There has always been someone else for people to love,_ she thought bitterly to herself. _First my brothers, now Gúthwyn. _They were the ones who her "friends" in Dol Amroth had clamored to be near and the men catered to satisfy; she was the one Éomer worried about, whom he would drop everything for to please.

Yet she would not let herself be ignored, to be called upon only when remembered or needed to produce an heir. From Elphir, she had learned to find the faults of those who had wronged her. From Erchirion, she had learned to seek revenge on them by means of those weaknesses. However, it was Amrothos, closest in age to her, who had taught her how to do so.

And unfortunately for Gúthwyn, Lothíriel had survived the hell that was the court of Dol Amroth.

* * *

**A/N:** Many thanks to **Finduilas88**, who was largely responsible for bringing about this rewrite and who provided such amazing feedback on the plot. Thank you so much! 


	43. An Incriminating Sheet

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Forty-Three:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Forty-Three**

As the months passed, the signs of Lothíriel's pregnancy began to manifest themselves throughout the household. Aside from her swelling stomach, which mildly appalled Gúthwyn in the amount of discomfort she imagined it must have wrought, the queen experienced moods as swiftly changing as the tides, and strange cravings that sometimes were for food she normally loathed. Lothíriel rarely complained in front of Éomer, choosing to do so in front of her maids—who were more than willing to oblige her, some of them having been through the child birthing process themselves—but from what little Gúthwyn had heard, the pregnancy was only made bearable by the thought of what was to come.

She felt bad for the queen, whom she knew would be confined to her bed as summer neared, and guilt about having yelled at her over the slave incident led her to offer as much help as she possibly could. It was her impression that Lothíriel was torn between not wanting to rely on her for anything and actually needing the aid; Gúthwyn was familiar with such proud sentiments, and tried to be as kind as possible when extending a hand—literally or figuratively.

One of the ways in which Lothíriel put her services to use was the washing. Since Nethiel had now found her workload to be significantly increased, she rarely had time to go down to the circles of women and launder the king and queen's clothes. Considering she was given to spend hours collecting the latest gossip and storing it like a squirrel does its nuts as a tasty morsel to report back to the queen, all without getting much of the chore done, it became even more of a priority that someone else be assigned the task. Gúthwyn welcomed the additional time to converse with her people, and often took as many as five loads of laundry to the washing circles; six, if she insisted on doing Cobryn's, despite his protests to the contrary.

However, while Éomer often expressed concerns that she was doing too much, she assured him that the rest of her life remained unchanged, and she had enough time left once the washing was finished to do whatever she pleased. This mainly involved going to the training grounds, though she frequently wrote to Éowyn and Elphir, and prided herself on maintaining both correspondences. In addition, she continued teaching Haiweth in whatever ways she was able. The girl's lessons proceeded remarkably well, and her drawing skills flourished. Gúthwyn could never quite understand where she had gotten the gift from, but she supposed the child's mother or father must have been an artist.

And so her life was passing, the days turning into weeks and the weeks turning into months, until the winter had gone by and spring was beginning to show itself once more. Gúthwyn was kept even busier as Lothíriel's body grew larger, for now the queen was incapable of doing several tasks that she had performed until the later days of her pregnancy. As the excitement mounted within the Golden Hall for the arrival of the king's heir, Gúthwyn made herself useful in whatever way was possible, hoping to take as many burdens off the soon-to-be mother as she could.

There came a pleasant day in April when Gúthwyn was preparing to do her usual washing. She had gotten quite good at the task, and no longer felt overwhelmed when facing a monstrous pile of assorted garments. These ranged between everything from Haiweth's dress to Éomer's riding cloak, the latter being more arduous if only for the stench it sometimes accumulated. Gúthwyn was wont to tease her brother over his lack of cleanliness, jesting that it was a miracle he had gotten a wife with such habits.

She hummed contentedly as she walked down the hall to Lothíriel's chambers, balancing an enormous basket of laundry on her hip. In truth, it often felt as if it weighed more than she did, but all her years as a laborer had not gone to waste—she was able to lift it well enough, and would not think much of it when she placed her queen and her brother's clothes on top of it all.

"Who is it?" Lothíriel's voice called after she had knocked on the door.

"Gúthwyn," Éomund's daughter replied.

There was a long pause before the door was opened. For some reason, Lothíriel always delayed in answering her, a fact that she started noticing more once she had a heavy load of laundry on her hip.

"Oh, thank you," Lothíriel said, once she saw what Gúthwyn had intended to ask her. "Please, come in. I will just be a moment."

Gúthwyn stepped into the room, relieved to put her basket down on a chair. Lothíriel lumbered—her gait hardly resembled a walk—around for a little, gathering clothes and setting them on her arm.

"How was your ride yesterday with Éomer?" the queen asked as she worked, her back turned to Gúthwyn.

The two siblings had been gone for most of the day, riding out to the Snowbourn and spending a few hours there before returning. While Éomer would have extended the invitation to his wife, he did not wish her to be in the saddle anymore than she absolutely had to. Nonetheless, both of them had enjoyed themselves immensely, and Gúthwyn was looking forward to the next outing—if they could manage it before the baby was born.

"It was excellent," she replied, grinning. "We had a race once we were within sight of the city; did you see?"

"I did," Lothíriel answered, and it seemed that her tone had turned cool once more. "Éomer won, did he not?"

Gúthwyn nodded. "He is a far better rider than I, though I have always liked to say the contrary in his presence."

Lothíriel did not respond to that with a laugh, as Gúthwyn had expected. Instead, she deposited a heavy armful of laundry into the basket. "I think that is just about it," the queen said briskly, and glanced around the room. "Oh, wait, there is one more thing." She strode over to the bed and took off the top sheet. "We have been using this for awhile, though I forgot to have it cleaned."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said, smiling at her brother's wife as she lifted the basket. "I will have these done as soon as I am able."

"You are welcome," Lothíriel replied, and the ghost of a grin flitted across her face.

Gúthwyn sighed a little as she walked down the hall. She and Lothíriel had never attained anything resembling a companionship, though it was certainly not for lack of trying on her part. She knew the queen had also attempted to become friends with her, by offering to spar with her on that day, but for every step they gained, it seemed as if they were pushed back two. Through a combination of unlucky circumstances, the air between them was still quite tense, although they took pains to conceal this from Éomer. He had said more than once that all he wanted was for his wife and his sister to be close friends; neither of them wished to ruin this dream.

Haiweth was nowhere in sight, so Gúthwyn was alone as she went through the hall and out into the afternoon. For a moment she paused, savoring the sight of her people going about their daily business. Then her eyes fell on two of the guards, Ceorl and Eanwulf, who were heading down to the training grounds. A faint flush came to her face. Over the winter, both of them had availed of themselves to ask for her hand in marriage. They were not the only ones, either. Several other guards and soldiers had come to Éomer, seeking to be her husband. The fact that she knew them all and practiced with them so frequently had only made things even more embarrassing. Somehow, word must have gotten around—likely from her brother himself—that she was looking to be wedded. Yet after Tun, she could not bear to marry one of his friends, and had quietly refused them all.

Because of this, the time that she spent at the training grounds was shorter, as many of the men she practiced with had been rejected by her, and their sparring matches were tinged with an awkwardness that she did not like when dealing with her people. It pained her to know that she was the cause of it, but there was nothing she could do. She had been as honest as she could in her explanation of why she would not marry them—and had told them all herself, not wishing to do so through a messenger as if she were a coward—but the fact remained that it was strange, talking to men who had just asked her for her hand. Even now, she was only on tentative speaking terms with Tun.

A small sigh escaped her as she made her way down the street. Eventually, she knew, her relationships with her friends would repair themselves. Someday she might even be able to laugh and converse with Tun as she once had, without the shadow of the past to darken their speech. But for now, she had to content herself with the women's circles, and while she had no qualms with them, sometimes their gossip grew wearisome. Whenever they were not complaining about their husbands, whom they all loved anyway, they commented on this courtship or that marriage. Nethiel was often considered a prime source in this regard, for she sometimes had the precious few accounts of the latest fashions in Gondor.

Today, however, it was Gúthwyn who came from the Golden Hall to speak with them, and the women would have to wait for another day to hear of what ribbons the Gondorian ladies were tying in their hair. Hildeth and Wífled shifted over to give her some room, and the latter informed her that they had, as a matter of fact, been discussing her marriage prospects again.

"Not this!" Gúthwyn cried, her face turning bright pink. "It is not worth your time!" She was especially embarrassed, because some of the women she was standing near—such as Brytta—were sisters of the men she had turned down.

"Well, you certainly have us all intrigued," Wífled said unabashedly. "I thought for sure you would have accepted either Tun or Elfhelm's proposals, but clearly you have your eyes set on someone better."

"They are both wonderful men," Gúthwyn answered, somewhat more sharply than she had intended to. "If I were to find someone better, I would be committing incest, and my brother already has a wife."

"Oh, there must be someone," Elflede commented, wringing out a shift. "What about Prince Elphir? He was very attractive, and if it is not too bold of me to say, he was clearly interested in you."

A faint blush crept up Gúthwyn's cheeks. Her brother had been trying to convince her of the same thing, especially once Elphir began saying in his letters that he wished to see her again. However, she had never seen anything in the prince's gestures other than friendship or nobility, and fervently hoped that Éomer was wrong in his guesses.

"Well," she said, not wanting to say anything that would fuel harmful gossip, "I am not planning on pursuing a marriage. I have been thinking more of Lothíriel's child than my own affairs."

As she had hoped, this distracted most of the women, and they launched into a full-fledged discussion about whether the baby would be a boy or a girl. It was decided that it would be the former, as was befitting for a king's heir. Gúthwyn was not exactly sure how they could tell, but she had little to no experience in midwifery, and figured that they knew what they were talking about.

She now listened rather than spoke, for she had to attend to the monstrous load of laundry. Steadily, she worked her way through Hammel's, Haiweth's, hers, and Éomer's clothes. Her work took so long that many of the women had filtered away by the time she had reached Lothíriel's garments, and had been replaced by a group of younger girls. Their alternating shrill giggles and furious whispering threatened to give her a headache; mercifully, Hildeth and Wífled were still beside her.

"Child, what happened to Lothíriel's maid?" Hildeth asked as Gúthwyn began carefully washing one of the queen's numerous dresses. "Every single week, you seem to be doing all the laundry for that household."

"Nethiel has been doing other tasks, now that Lothíriel cannot move around like she used to," Gúthwyn explained, wringing out a sleeve. Later, she would have one of the servants press the gown, in order to prevent wrinkles from forming in the costly fabric.

Hildeth snorted. "Does Éomer know about this?"

Frowning, Gúthwyn replied, "Of course he does."

There was a brief pause. "And what did he say?"

"He was a little concerned that I was doing all the washing, but I am glad to help out," Gúthwyn responded. Not once did she look at Hildeth, for she was concentrating on making sure she did not accidentally tear the cloth. How on Middle-earth was it that Lothíriel managed to wear so many outfits in a single week?

"You are going to work yourself to death," Hildeth muttered irritably. "Are you eating properly?"

"Of course I eat," Gúthwyn said, starting on a new dress. She had just had some stew for lunch, as opposed to a small slice of bread.

"It does not look like it," Hildeth accused her.

"Now, now," Wífled said, her tone unusually mild. "She gained a few pounds, see?"

Gúthwyn, uncomfortable at having her weight discussed so openly, and also keenly aware of the younger girls watching her, turned her attentions to the last of Lothíriel's clothes. After she was finished with them, she would only have the bed sheet left. As the women around her continued to bicker, she tuned them out and focused on completing the task at hand. She had deliberately kept Lothíriel's delicate blue gown for last, as she knew it was the queen's favorite and did not wish to ruin it. Luckily, she did not do so this time, and with a sigh of relief she set it aside and turned to the sheet.

As she held it up, Gúthwyn caught a faint whiff of something that smelled strangely familiar. It was not her brother's scent; it was slightly tangy, and rather dour. For reasons that she knew not, a chill swept over her. Closely, she examined the fabric. At first, she noticed nothing amiss. Then, as her hand was lightly running over the cloth, she felt something wet. When her fingers came away, a sticky white fluid coated the tips.

Horror engulfed her, and she forgot to breathe. Her face grew steadily paler as she realized what was the source of the liquid. She felt a roaring in her ears. _By the Valar,_ she thought, feeling as if she were about to faint, _he made love to her last night... or even this morning…_

She could not move. She could not think. Haldor was inside of her, moving, and no matter what she did she could not escape. His thrusts became rapider, signaling the end to her shame; then her legs were wet, as well as the sheet beneath them. The sheet that she held in her hand... her own brother's fluids... Gúthwyn swayed, dangerously close to collapsing.

"My lady?"

Wífled's worried voice, sounding as if it were coming from a million miles away, broke in on her revulsion. Gúthwyn's breathing was uneven; she knew her face was pale, her hands trembling even as they clutched the sheet. She felt like she was going to be sick. _This must be some mistake,_ she thought wildly. _Lothíriel would never do this, she could not have known... But she had to have remembered... _

A sharp gasp echoed in her ears. Wífled snatched the sheet from her white hands and gaped at it for a full thirty seconds. Then her eyes met Gúthwyn's. They were filled with a mixture of shock, half-admiration, and even an underlining of disgust.

"Who was it?" Wífled asked in a hushed voice.

It took over a minute for Gúthwyn to determine what she meant. Yet when she understood that Wífled believed the sheets to be hers, she could not even speak in her own defense. Her throat was closing up; her head was pounding and her stomach was nauseous. "I... I d-did not... it is..."

"What is going on?" Hildeth demanded, and leaned over to see the offending sheet. It was only then that Gúthwyn saw the younger women in the circle. They were whispering furiously to each other, shooting glances at her as they did so. It was obvious that they had all seen the sheet. Not a single face was friendly.

Gúthwyn tried, once again, to say something. "It is not... I did not..."

For all the good that it did, she might as well have been talking to a wall. Only Hildeth seemed to hear her, for the older woman's sharp, piercing gaze met hers. Wífled had begun to suggest names of whom she thought Gúthwyn could have taken to her bed; even Tun was not off limits. One of the girls left the circle and raced across the street. There she met with a friend, and began hastily muttering something in her ear.

"Child, come here," Hildeth said. Gúthwyn was trembling head to foot; she barely managed to move over to the woman's washbasin.

Once she had obeyed, Hildeth looked at her long and hard. "Is this yours?" she asked at length, holding out the sheet.

Gúthwyn recoiled from it as if she had been slapped. She felt as if she were going to throw up. "N-No," she stammered, her horrified eyes barely meeting Hildeth's. "L-L-Lothíriel... she... she g-gave it to me..."

Hildeth rolled her eyes, but the gesture was directed towards the girls. "All of you, be quiet!" she snapped, and they jumped as if scalded. "This is the queen's sheet, you fools! The nerve of you lot, to suspect otherwise!"

Even Wífled looked embarrassed, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation now crashing over Gúthwyn in waves. She stood there, frozen, memories of Haldor on the verge of overwhelming her, until Hildeth took pity on her and kindly showed her how to remove the stains.

As they worked, Gúthwyn's hands oftentimes shaking so much that she caused the water to splash out of the basin, Hildeth leaned close and asked, "What did you do to get on the queen's bad side?"

Gúthwyn stared at her in bafflement, trying to make sense of what the elderly woman was saying. "Was it not... was it not an accident?" she at last questioned, puzzled. Lothíriel was her brother's wife—she had no reason to do such a thing. Gúthwyn immediately dismissed the notion. Even though Lothíriel did not seem to approve of her, she could not think of a single insult she had given to deserve this.

Hildeth seemed apprehensive. "You watch out for that woman, now," she cautioned in an undertone, lowering her voice so that only Gúthwyn could hear. Her wrinkled hands rinsed and squeezed out the sheet. "I have seen her looking at you, and I can tell she is about as cunning and clever as your friend Cobryn."

Still distressed by the sight of Éomer's fluids, Gúthwyn could barely grasp what Hildeth was saying. "You think... you think she did that on purpose?"

"I never said that, did I?" Hildeth inquired, though her eyes were narrowed. "However, child, it would be in your best interests to tell all of this to Cobryn. He has an intelligent head on his shoulders, and I know you listen to him."

Gúthwyn's cheeks turned bright red at the idea of telling him about the sheet. "Hildeth, you are wrong," she said, wanting to believe it more than anything. "Lothíriel would never have given this"—she pointed at the cloth, and her finger trembled—"to me if she had remembered."

Hildeth shook her head and sighed. "You are too willing to see the good…" Then she trailed off, evidently thinking that it was not her place to continue. "Well, this is done." She made to give the sheet to Gúthwyn, but when Éomund's daughter shrank from it, she put it in the basket. "Next time, have Nethiel do the washing," she continued, and Gúthwyn glanced at her. "I will not have you running around like a servant—not someone of your status."

The elder woman had no means of enforcing her decree, as she was only a peasant, but Gúthwyn respected her and dazedly murmured that she would send Lothíriel's maid out the next week. As she made her way out of the circle, struggling to carry the basket that now felt as if it weighed as much as a sack of bricks, she saw the smirks of the younger women and felt mortified. They clearly still believed she was no longer innocent—and it hurt that they were right, but not because of her recent conduct. _Does Lothíriel know about what Haldor did to me?_ she found herself wondering. _Did Éomer ever tell her?_

_No,_ the other side of her shot back in an instant. _Lothíriel does not even know that she gave you the wrong sheet. If you tell her, she will apologize. _

With that thought in mind, Gúthwyn continued towards the Golden Hall, but she still felt nauseous, and more than once she had to stop for fear of fainting. She kept seeing the soiled cloth before her eyes and her white-coated fingertips, each vision causing her to become dizzier. Though she had scrubbed her hands repeatedly in the water, they still felt contaminated. When she reached the doors, one of the guards broke his stern façade to ask her concernedly if she was well. "Your face is awfully pale, my lady," he commented, and the other sentinel nodded.

"I-I am fine," she whispered, and all but ran into Meduseld. The cooks had already begun to prepare dinner; the scents reached Gúthwyn's nostrils, nearly causing her to vomit before she regained her composure. She knew she would not be able to sit down at the table that evening and see her brother, being fully aware of what he had done last night.

Struggling to overcome her swiftly increasing headache, she somehow managed to get down the hall and through the passage to Lothíriel's chambers. Once outside, she knocked rapidly and then waited. Her face was ashen, but there was nothing she could do about it.

A moment later, Lothíriel opened the door. The expression in her eyes was unreadable as she looked down at Gúthwyn. "Yes?" she asked.

Swallowing, Gúthwyn held out the basket.

"Ah," Lothíriel replied, and stepped aside so that Éomund's daughter could enter the room. "Thank you so much. Here, let me take those off your hands."

She reached in and pulled out all the dresses, leaving the sheet at the top of the pile. Gúthwyn tried to conceal her disgust at the sight of it, and looked away. Her eyes followed Lothíriel as the queen walked towards her wardrobe, her motions painfully slow. The woman took her time hanging the garments, as well. When she was done, she turned to Gúthwyn and asked, "Can you hand me that sheet?"

Gúthwyn's eyes widened. "Lothíriel…" she began, and stopped, her cheeks turning redder by the second.

"Yes?" Lothíriel inquired quizzically, arching an eyebrow. She drew nearer to Gúthwyn, but did not take the cloth in question.

"You gave me… You gave…"

"I gave you what?" Lothíriel asked, looking politely puzzled.

Gúthwyn's voice was hardly above a whisper as she said, "The sheet h-had… it had stains on it."

"Oh!" Lothíriel's perplexity cleared. "Oh, I am sorry! I completely forgot—" And her cheeks flushed, too, realizing what it was that she had been about to say. "Let me see that."

The queen then took it, and to Gúthwyn's bewilderment appeared as if she were examining it. When she finally glanced up at her husband's sister, there was a strange look in her eyes. She muttered, "Well, you certainly knew how to clean it better than Nethiel."

Something in Lothíriel's tone made Gúthwyn feel as if she had been slighted in some way, but she could not figure out how. She looked at her queen, confused. Lothíriel merely smiled, and said, "Thank you for your services. Good day."

This message was clear: She had been dismissed. Still puzzling over Lothíriel's odd remark, Gúthwyn nodded and left, her grip on the laundry basket far tighter than it needed to be. _What could she have meant, that I knew how to clean it better?_ she wondered as she walked, her brow furrowed. _Hildeth did it…_

Then, in the middle of the hall, she froze. Terrible realization swept over her: Lothíriel had implied that such knowledge came from experience—that she had taken men to her bed before, and knew how to get rid of the incriminating signs. Revulsion filled her at the idea. Gúthwyn swiveled around, intent on finding out how Lothíriel had assumed such an awful thing. But the door had already closed.

For a long time she stared at it, her mouth slightly opened, until she decided to do what Hildeth had instructed her: Speak with Cobryn, and tell him all that had transpired. Her face flushed and she trembled, however, for this would mean that she would have to explain what was on the sheets. Temporarily, she felt sick, and would have clutched her stomach had she not been holding the heavy basket.

_Find Cobryn,_ she told herself sternly. Taking a deep breath, she hastened down the passage, trying to think of where her friend might be. She had not seen him on the streets, nor had he been in the throne room. Hopefully their paths would cross—she felt her steps quickening at the thought of being able to confide in someone who knew enough to be able to sort the event out with her.

Yet he was not in the great hall when she emerged from the private corridor. Her heart fell like a stone. _Now what?_ she asked herself, looking around. She had been so sure that he would have walked in while she was talking to Lothíriel, and have settled himself at a table with a map in front of him… But the room was discouragingly Cobryn-free. In order to continue searching for him, she would have to rid herself of her basket.

Turning towards where her chambers lay, Gúthwyn made her way into the passage. Her spirits leaped into the air when her eyes fell on Cobryn, who was having a discussion with Hammel in front of the boy's door. Based on the book in his hand, she thought he might have been giving the child a new work to read, as he had already exhausted most of Rohan's meager library.

Hammel accepted the book just as Cobryn glanced up and saw her. Almost immediately her stomach knotted itself formidably, and it was a full minute before she trusted herself enough to speak. "Cobryn, c-can I talk to you?" she at length inquired, praying that her face was not as pale as she imagined it was.

He nodded quickly. "Of course," he said, and then turned to Hammel. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," Hammel answered, before retreating into his room with the book. Gúthwyn knew she would barely see him until he had devoured it.

Once the boy's door was closed, Cobryn looked at her. "What happened?" he asked, instantly interpreting her gaze.

Gúthwyn became acutely aware of two things: how heavy her basket was, and that any of the maids could bustle by and overhear their conversation. "Will you come with me?" she questioned, her voice low.

"Lead the way," he replied with a small bow.

Casting a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure that no one was watching—after the women in the washing circles had seen the sheet, she was painfully conscious of how it would look if she was seen taking her male friend into her room—Gúthwyn opened the door to her chambers and slipped through. Once he had followed her, she set her basket down on the bed and turned to face him.

"What happened?" he asked again, sitting down in a chair.

Gúthwyn did the same, edging her seat closer to his. Now that she had to tell the story, she found that her hands were trembling. Swiftly she hid them behind the chair. "I-I was doing the washing today," she began, her eyes meeting his briefly before she looked back down. "Lothíriel had… had given me some things, a-and I was cleaning them…"

Cobryn did not say anything, though his face tightened a little at the mention of the queen. He still had not dissolved his coldness around Lothíriel, and Gúthwyn knew better than to try to convince him otherwise. The woman's remarks about the incompetence of slaves had offended him deeply; he made little secret of that around Éomund's daughter.

"Th-There was a sheet," Gúthwyn continued, now twisting her hands in anxiety, "a-and it had…"

"It had what?" he pressed her when she fell silent.

"Stains," she whispered, and she had to repeat it because no sound came out the first time. "I-It had stains on it…"

Cobryn's eyes widened. Leaning forward, he demanded, "Who was with you while you were washing?"

"Hildeth," Gúthwyn responded shakily, "as well as Wífled and several other young women."

Her friend's face twisted in anger. "Did they see the sheet?"

Miserably, Gúthwyn nodded.

"That," Cobryn said, his voice hardened, "was likely her intent."

Gúthwyn started, and looked at him in surprise. "That was what Hildeth thought," she answered. "But the only time Lothíriel and I have ever argued was about the slaves…" Then she bit her lip.

"Did you tell her about the sheet?" Cobryn inquired.

"Y-Yes," Gúthwyn said. "She apologized… b-but then… she told me I had known how to clean it better than Nethiel."

Cobryn's scowl was so dark that she was suddenly glad it was not directed to her. "In that case, there can be no doubt that she did it on purpose. And now, there will be rumors all over the city about your conduct."

"Why would she do something like that?" Gúthwyn asked her friend, shivering.

"To taint your reputation," Cobryn said immediately, his eyes clouded as if in thought.

Gúthwyn's mind flashed back to the accusing stares of the other girls, and how one of them had run across the street to hiss something furiously into her friend's ear. Yet surely Lothíriel would not… "Why?"

"You tell me," was Cobryn's reply. "It is no secret to either of us that she dislikes you. Now she is just acting on it."

"What have I ever done to her?" Gúthwyn wondered. "I know we have never gotten along well, but I tried to get to know her better… Do you think I have offended her in some way, and I am just not aware of it?"

Cobryn shrugged. "Whatever the case may be, now that Lothíriel has all but announced her intent, you need to watch what you say or do around her."

Gúthwyn was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that Lothíriel had given her the soiled sheet on purpose. "But… what is she trying to do?"

"Do not trouble yourself over it," Cobryn told her. "I will keep an eye on her, for we often see each other at the meetings. If I observe anything of interest, I will let you know."

"You seem remarkably calm about this," Gúthwyn muttered. "Can I not just tell Éomer?"

Yet no sooner had she said that than she realized she could not: Éomer had always wanted her and Lothíriel to get along. If she told him otherwise, he would become upset, and the situation would grow even worse than it already was—if indeed Lothíriel was attempting to tarnish her reputation. Gúthwyn did not understand how the queen would go about doing so; and what was she supposed to do? Bewildered, she looked to Cobryn for assistance.

"Do not worry," he assured her. "She will act slowly, for she cannot risk direct action. Nor would it be wise to do everything at once."

"How do you know all this?" Gúthwyn asked, mystified.

"Politics," Cobryn replied. "I heard from her father that she was an expert in the ways of the court in Dol Amroth—and despite what you think about the society, their language is not so frivolous. It would be a grievous mistake to underestimate her."

"You make it sound as if we are entering a war," Gúthwyn said, her head swimming.

"In a way," Cobryn responded, "we are."


	44. Happy Birthday V

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Forty-Four:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Forty-Four**

_Wonderful,_ Gúthwyn thought when she woke up. _Today is my birthday._

Repressing a groan, she rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. Part of her was surprised that she was not already sick. Then again, there were a variety of other things that had plagued her over the years: Not seeing her siblings, meeting Faramir, Haldor… A shiver rippled through her body. It was five years to the day since he had pressed her against the wall, raping her in exchange for the information about Hammel.

She raised her head to look at the chamber pot, debating whether or not she should move it into a more reachable position. Tendrils of nausea were already swirling through her, try as she might to suppress them. Haldor's sneers echoed in her mind. _Pathetic._

"No…" Gúthwyn whispered. But she could not deny it; she could not pretend that she had not wrapped her legs around his hips while he pushed into her, or clutched at him when he removed his support. She could not pretend that she had not let him do to her as he willed, offering no resistance save for her voice frantically pleading with him to stop. And what good had it done? She should have kept her silence… she should have endured the humiliation stoically, and saved whatever of her dignity she could salvage…

_But I did not,_ she thought. _I let him break me._

That was when she heard the scream. It was short-lived and muffled, and far off in the distance, but it was so full of pain that it made the hair on Gúthwyn's neck stand on end. With a start, she bolted to a sitting position, holding her breath and listening for the sound. When it came again, she recognized it to be Lothíriel's. _By the Valar,_ she thought, scrambling out of her bed and rushing towards her dresser, _what is going on?_

Swiftly she threw a robe over her nightgown, and without bothering to even put on slippers she rushed out of the room. As she entered the throne room, the cries grew louder. Her eyes fell upon dozens of servants scurrying around, including some that did not normally work in the household. Then, with a sudden shock, she realized that they were apprenticed to midwives. Lothíriel was giving birth.

As if to confirm her deduction, another shriek rang through the air. It was coming from her brother's chambers—evidently, Lothíriel was lying in the bed, attended to by whatever maids were available. Gúthwyn remembered that the queen had been complaining of abdominal pains the night before.

_Where are Hammel and Haiweth?_ she found herself wondering as another one of Lothíriel's cries rent the air. A quick look around the room did not reveal anything. However, when she glanced around a second time, she saw the small form of Haiweth. The girl was hunched over at a far table, her hands clamped against her ears. She was shaking in fear; no one had thought to comfort her.

For a brief instant, Gúthwyn was torn between finding out whether Lothíriel was well and reassuring Haiweth. But her own maternal instincts won out, and she reasoned that the queen was in capable hands. Haiweth, meanwhile, had no one. Éomund's daughter strode across the hall, dodging running servants and hassled maids.

"Haiweth?" she asked as she came closer.

The child did not hear her.

"Little one," Gúthwyn tried again, this time sitting down beside her and tapping her shoulder to get the girl's attention.

Haiweth looked at her with wide, fearful eyes, but still did not remove her hands from her ears. Gently, Gúthwyn pried them away. "Everything is all right," she said soothingly.

Lothíriel screamed again. At the sound, Haiweth drew a shuddering breath and clung to Gúthwyn. "What is happening?" she asked, quivering.

_No one told her?_ Gúthwyn thought angrily. She could not really blame them, for the king's heir was a far more pressing concern—yet surely one of the servants could have taken the time to inform the child that their queen was giving birth?

To Haiweth, however, she said nothing of this. "Lothíriel is having her baby," she instead murmured. "We must hope for a safe delivery."

Despite the fact that Lothíriel continued to treat her coldly, Gúthwyn prayed that both her and her unborn child would be in healthy condition at the end of the labor. She knew Éomer would be devastated if he lost either of them, and she could not bear to see her brother so saddened.

"Why is she screaming?" Haiweth questioned, a tremor in her voice.

"Labor is a painful experience, little one," Gúthwyn responded, stroking the child's hair and thankful that she was not in Lothíriel's position. "She has all of the midwives attending her; that is all we can do."

"Will she die?" Haiweth whispered.

"No, of course not," Gúthwyn said, praying fervently to the Valar that she had not spoken falsely. "Now, where is your brother?"

Haiweth stirred. "Outside with Cobryn," she muttered.

"How about you go find them?" Gúthwyn suggested. "It is better than sitting here and listening to all of this."

Looking at her dubiously, Haiweth inquired, "What about you?"

"I will stay here," Gúthwyn decided, "and see if there is anything I can do to help Lothíriel."

Another cry echoed from the queen's chambers, and this time Haiweth did not hesitate. She leaped up from the seat and all but sprinted outside, though a few seconds passed before a servant noticed she was trying to get out and opened the doors for her. Gúthwyn was left alone at the table.

Not wanting to sit idle while Lothíriel was giving birth, she stood up and made her way towards the passage leading into her chambers. As she drew closer, she caught a brief glimpse of her brother stepping into the room. Yet before she could go any further, Nethiel appeared out of seemingly nowhere and slipped in front of her.

"The queen wishes only for the midwives and her husband to be at her side."

Gúthwyn blinked at the abrupt tone of voice in which this was stated, then replied, "I just came to see if there was anything I could do. How is she?"

"No, there is not. She is as well as she can be," Nethiel answered, and fell silent. She looked at Gúthwyn expectantly, as if waiting for her to leave.

A little bewildered by the way Nethiel was watching her like she was a criminal of some sorts, Gúthwyn nodded, and requested, "Will you let me know if any extra help is needed, as well as when the child is born?"

"Of course," Nethiel responded, her voice anything but sincere.

Gúthwyn narrowed her eyes, but chose not to comment on the disrespectfulness of Lothíriel's maid. Instead, she turned around and retreated to her room. Once she closed the door behind her, she listlessly opened her trunk and took out Beregil's poems. Yet when she heard another faint cry, she gave up.

The rest of the day passed slowly. Gúthwyn alternately paced around her room and lay on her bed, wondering how long the labor would last. No one came to inform her of any mishaps, so she assumed that it was going well, but each of the screams she heard made her clench her fists. Out of a fit of anxiety, she actually took her sword out to practice with it in her room, but even Framwine could not distract her.

As the hours passed by, a gnawing hunger started filling her stomach, though she did not want to go into the hall where all of the servants were running around. She hated the sounds of their scampering feet: it made her worried that something was wrong. Yet no one came in and confirmed that fear. For awhile, she entertained the thought of going outside to find Cobryn and the children, but eventually decided against it.

Finally, as the skies darkened and the light streaming in from her small window disappeared, Gúthwyn opened the door and stuck her head out. For a long time, she listened. There was nothing—not even the wailing of a newborn. Sharp terror flooded through her. _What is going on?_ she wondered frantically, striding down the passage. She had been waiting long enough; now she would demand to know what was happening.

Her nerves were increased when she entered the throne room and discovered that hardly any of the servants were there. _Damn Nethiel,_ she thought, making her way to the corridor on the opposite side of the hall. The maid was nowhere in sight. She passed unhindered until she could see the open door of Lothíriel's chambers. There was a great commotion from within.

Before she had the chance to go inside, Éomer came out and saw her. His expression was at first unreadable. "Is she all right?" Gúthwyn asked, rushing over to him. "Why can I not hear anything?"

His eyes widened. "Did no one tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Gúthwyn pressed, straining to get a look into Lothíriel's room.

A broad grin spread across his face. "I have a son!" he cried, unable to keep his enthusiasm dignified.

Gúthwyn gasped, and the next instant embraced him. "Congratulations!" she exclaimed, overjoyed at the news. _The babe and I have the same birthday,_ she thought happily to herself. "This is wonderful! What is his name?"

"Elfwine," Éomer said, with the unmistakable pride of a new father.

_Elf friend…_ Gúthwyn mused, smiling as she let go of her brother. "Was he born just now?"

"No," Éomer answered, and frowned a little. "He took his first breath half an hour ago—where were you?"

Gúthwyn's brow knitted. "I told Nethiel to alert me if anything happened… I have been in my room the entire time, for she said that Lothíriel only wanted you and her midwives in the room." Irritation filled her, that the maid had disobeyed her on so important an issue.

For a moment, Éomer puzzled over this. "That is strange," he muttered to himself, and then shrugged. "Would you like to see him?"

"Of course!" Gúthwyn said, beaming.

Éomer led her into his chambers, where already a great crowd of servants had gathered around the bed. She could see the midwives cleaning the few remaining signs of the labor; a winced crossed over her as she saw the bloody rags. As her brother stepped inside, however, the maids quickly scuttled away to let him see his wife. Gúthwyn's gaze rested on a tired, but happy-looking Lothíriel. She was holding Elfwine in her arms.

A soft intake of breath was heard, and Gúthwyn whispered, "He is adorable!"

Lothíriel smiled a little, shifting the baby slightly and glancing down at him. His eyes were closed, and his frail body was wrapped snugly in a fleece blanket. A few wisps of dark hair rested on his head. Gúthwyn's heart went out to him—such a small, innocent thing he was. "Congratulations," she murmured.

"Thank you," Lothíriel replied, touching the child's cheeks. The glow of motherhood was about her, brightening her normally pale face.

Elfwine stirred then, and blearily opened his eyes. They were brown in color, fixing on Lothíriel almost immediately. He studied her for a moment, and soon a small hand emerged from the blankets to tug at her hair. Then he looked at Gúthwyn. For the briefest instant, his lips tugged into a smile. He continued to watch her until he fell asleep a few seconds later, content in Lothíriel's arms.

"I am glad for you both," Gúthwyn said sincerely. "Éomer, if you wish, I will write to Éowyn and tell her of the excellent news."

He nodded in relief: She knew that, while he by no means dreaded conversing with her older sister, now he simply wanted to spend time with the latest addition to his family. Gúthwyn took one last look at Elfwine before she curtsied and left the room. She was unable to restrain herself from skipping down the hallway, and as a result nearly bowled over Cobryn and Hammel. They and some of the advisors had gone to pay their respects to the king's heir.

"How are they?" Cobryn asked her, initially smirking at the action that had almost caused her to run over them.

"They are both doing well," Gúthwyn informed him. "He is so charming—he smiled at me—and his hands are so tiny!"

She knew she was babbling, but she could not help it. "I will let the two of you see him for yourself," she at length relented, and stepped aside. "I need to write a letter to Éowyn."

Cobryn looked as if there was something he wanted to say to her, yet Gúthwyn was already going into the throne room. There was another thing she had to take care of before she sat down to write to her sister, and she looked around for a certain maid. When she at last espied Nethiel, talking to one of the servants, she called out the woman's name. "A word, if you please," she added, her tone of voice making it clear that she was to be instantly obeyed.

Nethiel glared at her, but did not dare defy the summons. She made a show of going out of her way to stand before Gúthwyn, and did not speak.

"Where were you when Elfwine was born?" Gúthwyn asked sharply.

"At my lady's side," Nethiel said haughtily, putting an emphasis on "my lady" so as to make it obvious that Gúthwyn was not worthy of such a title.

Gúthwyn resisted the urge to slap her for her insolence. "You were supposed to inform me when anything happened," she instead responded, her eyes narrowed. "My brother has been a father for half an hour without me knowing it! If you were so busy, why did you not send someone to tell me?"

Most of her anger with the maid had built up over the months, as Nethiel showed an increasing lack of deference to her. Normally, she could care less whether or not the maids curtsied every time she made an appearance, but Lothíriel's servant had gone out of her way to be rude whenever they spoke, growing bolder when Gúthwyn did not chastise her for it. It was time for Éomund's daughter to remind her of her place.

"Well?" she pressed, when Nethiel did not speak.

"Her highness wished for me to take care of other things," Nethiel at last muttered, lifting her chin.

"Such as gossiping with the servants?" Gúthwyn demanded, her hands only held back by her mind's insistence that Nethiel was not worth her fury. "I suppose that if _your lady_ had died, I would not have learned of it until wailing filled the streets?"

Nethiel's mouth opened, and then closed.

"I do not know why you dislike me," Gúthwyn continued, stepping forward, "and nor do I care. But by entering service in this household, you are not bound to only one mistress! The least you can do is show me some respect, as I have tried to do to you. Is that understandable?"

"Yes," Nethiel said resentfully.

"Good," Gúthwyn replied. "Now, excuse me."

Without another word she turned on her heel and walked away, only pausing to speak briefly with some of the servants before returning to her chambers. Her fists were clenched. She disliked confrontations with other women; she found it much more difficult to speak with them than men. Éowyn and Chalibeth were the only two females she had ever been comfortable around enough to confide in them.

By now, it was late in the evening. Already she could hear Elfwine's wailing. _He will be a handful,_ she thought to herself with a grin. It was a pity that she had not gotten to see him as much as she would have liked; however, there would be plenty of time tomorrow, in the lull between the servants' and advisors' well wishes and those of the commoners. There would be a feast, of course, to officially announce the birth to the people, but it would not occur until Lothíriel had rested enough.

These thoughts kept her busy until she decided to turn in for the night. Belatedly, she remembered that she had not eaten anything all day, but she was not terribly hungry anymore, and decided against going into the kitchens and asking for something. She hummed contentedly as she changed into her nightgown, and whistled a little tune as she crawled under the comforters.

Only when she was closing her eyes did she realize that no one—not even Éomer—had wished her a happy birthday.

* * *

**A/N:** I just wanted to say a huge thank-you to everyone--**101** reviews! I'm so lucky to have awesome readers. Thank you all so much! 


	45. The Perfect Gift

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Forty-Five:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Forty-Five**

When Éomer Éadig awoke the morning after his son's birth, the first thing he heard was a fussing from the cradle. Elfwine was moving fretfully, his arms feebly trying to push aside his blanket.

_My own son,_ the king of Rohan thought, watching him fondly. His gaze then turned to Lothíriel. His wife was understandably exhausted, and though it was late in the morning she was fast asleep. A smile came to his face to see her; she looked so innocent and peaceful that he would suddenly rather fight a battle than wake her up. He reached out to stroke her hair gently.

Elfwine began whimpering, and for a moment Éomer was at a loss for what to do. Should he pick his son up and attempt to comfort him? Or would he merely scream, preferring Lothíriel's touch? He worried that he was not good enough to be a father—what did he know about children? Gúthwyn had always taken care of young ones such as Hammel and Haiweth, but he had done nothing of the sort. Even when his own sisters had been little, he rarely had to take care of them as extensively as he would his son.

At length he decided to try his luck with Elfwine, and quietly crawled out of the bed. Elfwine stared at him as he approached the cradle. "Good morning," Éomer murmured, leaning over the crib.

Elfwine stretched out to touch him, but was a few feet short of his goal. Éomer smiled, taking that as a good sign, and leaned over to take him out of the cradle. His hands, calloused from years of warfare, held the newborn as softly as if he were handling glass—which, he reminded himself, he all but was. Taking the utmost care to not hurt his son, he lifted him up and looked into his warm brown eyes.

Now he came to another problem: How to hold him without harming him? Frantically, his mind searched back to how he had seen Gúthwyn carrying Haiweth. She had settled the girl on her hip… but was there not a different way to hold a baby? After all, Haiweth had been six when he met her…

Finally, he decided to simply hold Elfwine to his chest, and pray that he was doing the right thing. Gradually he made his way back to the bed. When his son did not protest, he slid back under the covers, sitting next to the sleeping form of his wife. Elfwine gurgled a little, straining to touch Lothíriel's hair. He had a developed a curious affinity for the long locks, and had played with them for the entire time he was awake.

"Not now," Éomer said quietly, trying to let Lothíriel rest for as long as possible. He shifted so that Elfwine could not yank at the hair. Soon, they would have to hire a permanent nurse for him. Already they were looking at different applicants, trying to choose which of the women that had volunteered for the job would be the best for their son. _Perhaps I should ask Gúthwyn her opinion,_ he mused, absent-mindedly rocking Elfwine. _She knows most of the people._

For a few seconds, he had the sensation that he was forgetting something, but when he tried to grasp the memory it escaped him. Shrugging, he leaned back against the pillows with his son in his arms. "I am looking forward to watching you grow up," he muttered.

Elfwine yawned.

At that moment, Lothíriel stirred, and her eyelids half opened. "Good morning," she said tiredly, moving closer to him. A small smile came across her face to see him with Elfwine. "He is up already?"

"Aye," Éomer replied, chuckling a little. "Though it seems as if he might fall asleep again—and I believe that you appear so, as well."

Lothíriel groaned. "That labor was miserable," she responded, wincing.

"Does it still hurt?" Éomer asked concernedly, adjusting his grip on Elfwine so that he could caress her brow.

"A bit," Lothíriel answered, then propped herself up on her elbow. "How is he?"

"Drowsy," Éomer said. Carefully, he lowered Elfwine to the mattress so that he was in between him and Lothíriel. The babe's eyes were beginning to close. In a way, Elfwine reminded him of Gúthwyn. He had been too young to recall much of Éowyn in her first days, but when his baby sister was born he had been eight. For weeks, all she had done was sleep and smile—not entirely unlike how she was today, he thought with a faint grin.

There it was again. The nagging suspicion that he had forgotten something. Knitting his brow, he tried to think of what it was he had missed. Had he made an appointment yesterday, and not gone to it because of the childbirth? Or was a letter he had yet to respond to sitting on his desk? He squinted, but could not see any envelopes on the table.

"What is wrong?" Lothíriel wanted to know, then cringed slightly as Elfwine's fingers curled around her hair and yanked on several strands. Her hands worked to disengage him as she waited for Éomer's response.

"What is the date?" he asked, hoping that perhaps the knowledge would help him think of what he had forgotten. He hated the feeling.

Lothíriel thought for a second or two, and then said, "The fourteenth of June."

The fourteenth… Elfwine's birthday was the thirteenth…

_Wait a minute,_ Éomer suddenly thought, and sat bolt upright. A loud curse escaped his lips. "By the Valar," he said, his eyes wide in horror. "I did not forget that…"

"Forget what?" Lothíriel asked, puzzled. Elfwine starting fussing once more. "Hush, child," she whispered in his ear.

"Yesterday was Gúthwyn's birthday!" he exclaimed hoarsely, throwing the covers off of himself and scrambling out of the bed. "It completely slipped my mind—I never said anything to her, I never gave her a gift—"

He swore again. And of course, she had not mentioned it to him. She never expected anything on her birthdays. His conscience was only further upset when he thought of how last year, she had been in the midst of a fever, barely able to talk without throwing up. The year before had been the same… and the year before that, he had been at a meeting, and as a result had not seen her the entire day.

"Do you think any of the smiths can make some jewelry on such short notice?" he asked as he hastily dressed. Perhaps a necklace… _no, she already has one, and she never takes it off,_ he thought in the next instant. Earrings, maybe? _Does she even have her ears pierced?_ he wondered, struggling to remember. He could have sworn that she had gotten them done when she was younger; but what if the holes had closed? She had certainly not worn earrings during her captivity.

_She does not even like jewelry!_ he thought despairingly. _I barely managed to convince her to wear gowns on a daily basis!_

It came to him then that Lothíriel was still silent, and he turned to her inquiringly.

"Éomer," she began, "she will not wake up until noon. You have a few more hours until you need to worry."

Éomund's son felt a twinge of guilt for abandoning his wife, but he felt even worse about the fact that he had ignored Gúthwyn's birthday. "I need to figure out what I can give her… I cannot believe I forgot my own baby sister's birthday…"

"That was because I was giving birth," Lothíriel said, a touch of hurt in her voice.

"I did not mean it like that," Éomer swiftly said, cringing. Now he had offended both of them. "I am sorry, Lothíriel," he added softly, going over to where she lay and leaning down to kiss her on the forehead. "Please, forgive me. But surely you know why I must go now… I must get a gift before she awakes."

"Good luck," Lothíriel said, smiling at him.

Relieved, he kissed her once more, this time on the lips. He was so lucky to have married her; there were occasions on which he secretly pinched himself to make sure he was not dreaming. For how else could he have gotten a wife so understanding? Any other woman, he thought, would have grown angry with him for being so concerned about Gúthwyn. Yet Lothíriel rarely questioned him, and not once had she expressed any discontent.

"I will see you in the afternoon," Éomer murmured, reaching down to stroke Elfwine's wispy hair before straightening. "Have a good day."

"You, too," she replied.

A minute later, he was in the throne room, surrounding by a throng of servants asking if the queen and his heir were well. "Of course," he assured all of them, in spite of himself grinning broadly. "They are both doing excellent. Now, if you will excuse me…"

Soon he had shaken them off, and quickly strode to the passage leading to Gúthwyn's chambers. As Lothíriel had said, she would still be sleeping, but he wanted to look at her and at least whisper an apology before he went to find the perfect gift. It was hardly enough to make up for what he had done, but it would ease his conscience until he could actually speak to her.

As he turned down the corridor, he was surprised to see Cobryn stepping out of Gúthwyn's room. "What are you doing?" he asked suspiciously, looking at the advisor.

Cobryn glanced up, saw him, and bowed. "I left Gúthwyn a note," he said. He grimaced as he continued, "I did not get a chance to wish her a happy birthday yesterday."

Éomer groaned. "I feel like a fool—I forgot."

The other man cursed under his breath, and then asked, "Did anyone say anything to her?"

A sinking feeling entered Éomer's heart. "I hope so," he murmured. "I should have remembered; I should have—"

"No one can blame you for being preoccupied," Cobryn reminded him. "It would be difficult to concentrate on aught else while your wife was giving birth."

Éomer saw the sense in his words, but did not draw much comfort from them. "Is she still asleep?" he asked quietly.

Cobryn nodded. "She did not move when I came into the room."

"What can I get her for a present?" Éomer questioned, a desperate tone in his voice. "Last year I had a dress made for her, but there is not enough time…"

"Éomer, she does not need a dress," Cobryn said firmly. "Nor does she need jewelry, if you were thinking of that. Spend some time with her, while Lothíriel is still resting with Elfwine." He shook his head. "All that she could want, she has."

Éomer was thoroughly wallowing in self-anger at this point. A long sigh escaped him. "Excuse me, then," he said. "I am going to see her."

Cobryn bowed and departed, passing into the great hall. Éomer hesitated, and then opened the door to Gúthwyn's chambers. He paused, sniffing curiously. The smell of burning wax was in the air; yet there were no flames on the numerous candles scattered throughout the room. _Did Cobryn light one of them?_ he wondered.

Soon, however, his puzzlement disappeared. His eyes fell on Gúthwyn, and he stiffened as always. She slept in such a tiny ball that he doubted the children could do better. It sent a chill through his spine to see her curled up in the fetal position, as if terrified that something would attack her.

_She probably is,_ he thought ruefully, recalling her fright when she had awoken to find him in the room. His intent had only been to determine whether she was interested in marriage—certainly innocent enough—but her eyes had been wild with horror, and she had not gained control of her breathing until several minutes had passed. Part of him was furious that she felt so unsafe in her own home. Had he been able to, he would have clamped his hands around Haldor's neck and crushed the Elf until there was nothing left of him. Yet it would not undo all that the monster had put his baby sister through.

"I am so sorry," he whispered to her. It was not only for missing her birthday: It was for not being there when she needed him the most, for failing to protect her from the hunter who had brought her into captivity, for never truly being able to understand the horrors she had experienced. He did not even know what her tormenter looked like; nor could he imagine her cringing beneath the Elf, struggling to get away from him even as he pinned her to his bed.

Almost without him noticing it, his breathing had become ragged, until he was trembling with rage and clenching his fists. When he became aware of what he was doing, he struggled to calm himself down. _You are not helping Gúthwyn by standing here,_ he thought sternly. _You said you would get her a gift—now do it!_

But what could he give her? While Lothíriel was inclined to admire over jewelry or dresses she had seen at the Gondorian court, Gúthwyn had never paid attention to those things. Even when she was younger, all she had wanted was a sword and her older siblings' attention. Completely lacking for ideas, Éomer glanced around her room. His frown deepened as he realized how little she actually had.

There was a brush on her dresser, though he knew that only half of the drawers contained clothes. The others were likely empty. A trunk had been positioned at the end of her bed, which held her sword and some of her nicer gowns. Aside from the furniture and candles, there was nothing else. The only item conspicuously absent was her small black book.

Éomer had seen her with this on several occasions, though he had no idea as to what was inside. Nor had he ever asked. There was a sadness within her eyes whenever she read it, so profound and deep that he felt uncomfortable witnessing it. Sometimes he wondered whether it had anything to do with the man she had once loved; it partially disturbed him, to think that he knew so little about that aspect of his sister's past.

At last, he sighed, and decided to leave before Gúthwyn woke up and panicked at the sight of him. Maybe Cobryn was right. Perhaps she would not mind so much if he did not give her anything, and instead spent the day with her. He could always give the promise of a long session on the training grounds…

_No,_ he thought as he left the room, softly closing the door behind him. _That is not special enough._

They had not gone riding together for quite some time. Surely he would be able to secure a free afternoon and ride out with her, especially since she did not often have an escort to take her out of the sight of the watch guards. If he was lucky enough to get the entire day off, he could bring her to the River Snowbourn, where they used to go swimming when they were children.

_Children._ His eyes lit up. They had not yet learned how to swim; at least, not that he was aware of. Surely they had not been taught before Mordor—Hammel had only been five, and Haiweth two. Éomer knew that Gúthwyn would delight in such an activity. His mind began weaving plans, confident now that he had found some way to redeem himself after yesterday.

* * *

Éomer returned to his bedroom once that morning. Lothíriel and Elfwine were sleeping peacefully together, their chests rising and falling in unison. Both of them were exhausted from the trying labor. Rather than slip into bed beside them, he watched them silently for a long moment. The picture his wife and his son had created was so perfect that he would not have ruined it for anything in the world.

All too soon, however, he heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Quickly, he stepped out into the corridor and gently closed the door, hoping that the occupants had not been disturbed. Aldhelm stood before him. "How are they?" he asked quietly.

Once Éomer assured him that all was well, the older man swiftly got down to business. "We need you to look at some charts, my lord, regarding the annual expenses. There was a discrepancy about how much we spent on Helm's Deep."

"As you wish," Éomer replied, nodding.

The rest of the morning hours dragged by. He was called upon to examine what felt like every single map and chart that had ever been made in the entire kingdom. He settled debates between his advisors, decided how much emphasis should be put on planting versus herding, and continued to ensure the order of his realm. Continuously he glanced at the passage from which Gúthwyn would emerge, hoping to catch her before she left to go to the training grounds.

Noon came and went. His councilors took a break for lunch, but he did not join them. He would eat with Gúthwyn, and use that time to offer a trip to the River Snowbourn. Ignoring the hunger in his stomach—he deserved at least this punishment, for forgetting his own sister's birthday—he hunched over some papers, reading the same sentence over and over again without registering a word it said.

Nearly two hours later, he saw her. She came into the hall, yawning, and stood there for a moment surveying the scene. Her gaze met his; a tentative smile crossed her face, though he noted guiltily that there was no sparkle in her eyes. It was not long before she looked away and sat down at another table, waiting for a servant to attend her. Éomer puzzled over why she did not sit with him until he saw the parchment in his hands. _She does not want to disturb me,_ he realized.

Hot shame washed over him. He had completely ignored Gúthwyn's birthday, and she still placed his concerns in front of her own. This made him only more determined to right his wrong. Without even excusing himself, he left his advisors and approached her table. "Do you mind if I sit?" he asked when she looked up at him.

"Of course not," she replied, sounding confused. As he sat across from her, she glanced at the maps he had left behind and inquired, "Do you have a meeting?"

"Just some paperwork," was his response. He was about to apologize when a servant swept over to their table.

"My lord," she said, and bowed to him before turning to Gúthwyn. "What may I get for you, my lady?"

Gúthwyn hesitated for a moment, and then said quietly, "If there is any stew, I will have that, along with some bread."

Éomer took the chance to surreptitiously examine her. She had gained weight recently, which was good: She had lost several pounds last year during her illness, and had looked almost emaciated for months afterwards. Sometimes it appeared to him that he could see her bones through her dress; yet she claimed to have a small appetite. It was a rare occasion that she ate a decent meal.

"What is it, brother?"

Gúthwyn's voice, puzzled, broke in on his musings. He pulled himself together and said, "I was merely lost in my thoughts. Forgive me."

She nodded, so easily accepting his answer that it twisted his heart. Gúthwyn would likely believe him if he told her that a dragon had flown over the city; she had always been that way, especially so as a small child. Éowyn had been wont to distrust his boasts of prowess on the field, wrinkling her nose and saying that how could he hope to do such things, if not even Théodred did them?—but Gúthwyn had soaked it all in with eager ears and eyes round as dinner plates.

"Sister," he said then, sighing heavily and looking at her. "I wanted to apologize for, ah… missing your birthday."

Her gaze clouded briefly, and for half a second he saw a hurt expression in the depths of her face. Yet just as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and she merely replied, "Éomer, do not worry about it. You had far more important things to be preoccupied with. How are Lothíriel and Elfwine?"

She had switched the topic deftly, a sure sign that she had noted his lack of acknowledgement all too clearly. "They are well," he said softly. "Gúthwyn, I am hoping to make this up to you—"

"Please, Éomer, do not bother," she cut him off briskly. "Thank you for your concern, but I am fine."

"Did anyone wish you a happy birthday?" he asked quietly.

Gúthwyn took a deep breath, and with a gut-wrenching sensation he knew what her response would be before she gave it. "No," she said carefully. "Nor does it matter, especially since Lothíriel was in labor." A stretched smile tugged at her lips. "Elfwine and I have the same birthday," she commented.

"I am so sorry," Éomer said fervently. "Gúthwyn, I—"

"It is nothing," she interrupted him, holding up a hand. "Really, it is—was—of little importance to me."

He studied her face closely, and just as adamantly she stared back at him. Their battle of wills was interrupted when a servant carrying Gúthwyn's food arrived, and set the steaming bowl of stew in front of her. A plate of bread followed. Éomer noticed that she momentarily looked nauseous as the scent wafted upwards.

"Did you have enough to eat yesterday?" he asked suddenly.

She raised her eyebrows, a faint flush creeping over her cheeks at his scrutiny. "Why would I not?" she questioned.

"If you ate normally," Éomer retorted, "you would not be so thin as you are now. It worries me, sister."

"You forget that I am never awake for breakfast," Gúthwyn answered, defiantly dipping her bread in the stew and eating a large bite.

He sighed, not wanting to argue with her. "Gúthwyn, I am sorry, but I also forgot to get you something for your birthday."

"That is not necessary," she quickly said. "Honestly."

"You say that every year," he remarked. "Do you not remember how you used to love your birthdays?"

Her face tightened, and she lowered her bread. "That was before I turned twelve."

Now he regretted his words. He had not meant to remind her of the day she was captured. It was a memory he had been struggling to repress for years. "Nevertheless," he said, trying to steer the subject away from her past, "I was wondering if you were planning on doing anything the day after tomorrow."

"I was not," Gúthwyn said, and though her voice was calm, Éomer thought he detected a hint of hope underlying her speech.

This gave him courage, and he continued. "Would you be interested in accompanying me on a ride to the River Snowbourn?" he questioned. "We have not gone riding together for a long time."

Such a broad grin spread across her face that he decided then and there to thank Cobryn for his advice. "If you wish," he added, fully appreciating the sight of her so happy, "the children can go as well—they have not yet learned how to swim, have they?"

Her smile widened, something Éomer had not thought possible. "No, they have not."

Gúthwyn's food now lay forgotten on her plate, but Éomer did not chastise her for it. "Thank you, brother," she murmured. "I am looking forward to it."

He loved her smile. "So am I, little sister."

Gúthwyn made a face. "I am not little," she muttered.


	46. Lullaby

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Forty-Six:  
**Just to let everyone know: I have no idea how to take care of a baby, given that I've never had one before. Most of the information I got off of the Internet, so if there is anything grossly wrong with my portrayal of Elfwine's upbringing, please let me know! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Forty-Six**

Elfwine swiftly established himself as determined to single-handedly drive the entire household mad. Over the next month, a good night's sleep became a rare luxury: He frequently awoke and bawled for hours, despite all of Lothíriel's attempts to calm him. The nurse they hired hardly fared better. The first few days, Elfwine had been quiet around her because of her unfamiliarity, but before long he regressed into crying and screaming whenever she tried to feed him.

The nearest healer had been consulted, though he had said only that some babies were more vocal than others, and that the king's heir suffered from no illness. Meanwhile, those in the Golden Hall endured acute sleep deprivation, resulting in short tempers and lack of concentration on the subject at hand. No matter what Lothíriel and Éomer did, they simply could not calm their son.

"Elfwine, please, be quiet," Lothíriel said wearily one night. "Éomer and his advisors are trying to have a meeting."

She might as well have spoken to her plate of uneaten food. Gúthwyn watched sympathetically as Elfwine opened his mouth and wailed angrily. At the other end of the hall, Aldor pressed his hand against his forehead, straining to listen to what Éomer was saying.

"Lothíriel, do want me to try?" Gúthwyn asked, feeling sorry for the queen. She looked as if she had not slept for weeks—which was not far off from the truth.

Elfwine was silenced at the sound of her voice, and stared at her curiously for a moment before turning to Lothíriel. He reached a small hand up and yanked fiercely at her hair.

Lothíriel gasped in pain, and quickly freed herself from her son's clutch. Immediately Elfwine started shrieking again. "No, thank you," the queen said, managing to make herself heard over Elfwine. "I am fine."

Gúthwyn held her tongue and picked at her bread, not wanting Lothíriel to become irritated with her. Though she had been noticeably less cool to Éomund's daughter since her son's birth, it was simply because she did not have the energy to maintain an icy façade. However, Gúthwyn was beginning to think that the tensions between them were going away. After all, now that the queen had a son to care for, surely she would devote her energies entirely to him.

"Elfwine!"

She glanced up to see Lothíriel pulling her son away from her dinner, but it was too late. Elfwine slammed his fist down into the stew, causing a good portion of it to spill onto the table. Some of it splattered onto Lothíriel's gown, staining the fabric almost immediately. To make matters worse, Elfwine howled and pulled on her hair once more, his hands still dripping with broth.

Gúthwyn winced as Lothíriel struggled to wipe the mess up with her napkin, keep her locks away from Elfwine, and restrain her frustration. A glance was sent in Éomer's direction. The king looked as if he were experiencing a painful headache.

"Lothíriel, really, I can watch him for a moment," Gúthwyn said earnestly. "Then you will be able to clean up faster."

Lothíriel's eyes met hers. It was clear that she was unwilling to accept help, especially with taking care of her own son. But Elfwine chose that instant to start screaming once more, his face screwed up in misery. With a long sigh, Lothíriel grudgingly said, "All right, here—"

She made to stand; yet Gúthwyn hastily got to her feet and moved to the other side of the table, not wanting her to have to add another task in her juggling routine of responsibility. Lothíriel nodded her thanks. Extricating herself from Elfwine, she carefully handed the baby over to Éomund's daughter.

Elfwine's cries were quelled with the abrupt change in caretaker. Gúthwyn realized that this was the first time she had held her brother's child. "Well met, little one," she murmured, smiling. _His eyes are adorable,_ she thought to herself.

For a long time, Elfwine examined her. While he did so, she adjusted her grip on him, and slowly made her way back to her seat. He was so small… even Haiweth had weighed more. "Have you been giving your mother trouble?"

He yawned, and then busied himself by grabbing a fistful of her hair. Gúthwyn let him play with it, only cringing somewhat as he tugged at her locks. As he grew more placated, she began rubbing his back, hoping to ease him into tranquility. Gradually, she became aware that she was gently rocking him back and forth. Elfwine did not seem to notice: Her hair fascinated him, and he amused himself by twisting it around his fingers. He yawned again.

Gúthwyn cast a brief glance over at Lothíriel, and saw that she was still cleaning up the broth that Elfwine had spilled. "It is just you and I," she whispered to her nephew, cradling him to her chest.

He began fussing. "It is all right, little one," Gúthwyn said soothingly, and stood up slowly so that she could rock him better. "Hush, now. You need to get some sleep."

As she spoke, she moved away from the table so that she did not bump into it and disturb the infant in her arms. Half unsure of what she was doing, only that she was trying to keep him from screaming, she started turning in a slow circle. She also kept talking, hoping that her voice would calm him. "How has your day been?" she asked him, acutely aware of how foolish she must have sounded. Elfwine certainly could not understand her. "I have heard you yelling ever since I woke up…"

Elfwine whimpered, and looked dangerously on the verge of tears. Quickly, Gúthwyn cast around for something to do. Unaware that Éomer was watching her from where he sat, she did not want to disturb him from his work. At length, she decided to sing a song. Though her voice left much to be desired, she remembered her mother gently singing her to sleep, and prayed that it would work for Elfwine as well.

_Where now is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?  
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?  
Where is the hand on the harp string, and the red fire glowing?  
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?  
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;  
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.  
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,  
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?_

It was a song she had sung often to herself in the days of Isengard, when she had believed that she had only to wait for someone to rescue her. It had been as much a source of comfort then as it was now. As she sang softly, Elfwine began relaxing in her arms, only occasionally tugging at her hair. She continued to rock him close to her chest, allowing him to rest his head on her shoulder. It was as if she were holding a young Haiweth once more, trying to console her after a long training session.

Elfwine steadily grew calmer, until at length he was still. Gúthwyn finished singing and glanced down at him. He was fast asleep, a small drop of drool forming at the corner of his mouth. She reached to the table for a napkin and wiped it off, breathing a sigh of relief when he did not awake. "Goodnight, Elfwine," she whispered, and held him closer.

When she looked up, Lothíriel was watching her, a strange expression on her face. "What song was that?" the queen asked curiously.

"An old hymn of the Eorlingas," Gúthwyn explained quietly. "My mother once used it to get me to fall asleep."

Lothíriel's gaze fixed on Elfwine. "It worked on him," she commented, and appeared unsure of what to say next. A yawn escaped her shortly afterwards.

"Do you want me to put him to bed?" Gúthwyn inquired, aware of how exhausted the queen was.

Lothíriel hesitated. "Would you mind?" she at length asked, trying to conceal her fatigue.

Gúthwyn shook her head. "Not at all," she replied. "It is the least I can do."

The other woman stifled another yawn, and then said, "Let us go now. I have never been more tired in my entire life…"

Feeling a surge of pity for her queen, Gúthwyn responded, "He will get better soon."

From the look on Lothíriel's face, the woman doubted the day would ever come, but nevertheless she began to make her way towards her chambers. Gúthwyn followed suit, and inquired, "What do you normally do to get him to sleep?" She was careful to keep her voice low so that Elfwine did not stir.

Lothíriel shrugged as she opened the door to her room. "I usually set him down in his cradle and hope he will eventually drift off. Unfortunately, he never seems to do that."

"Children rarely want to go to bed," Gúthwyn answered sympathetically, knowing from experience that she herself had always used whatever means necessary to avoid having to turn in for the night.

She stepped into the dark room, only faltering for a few seconds until Lothíriel had lit a few more candles. A new crib had been built for Elfwine, one tall enough so that a standing person could reach down and tuck the baby in. According to Lothíriel, such devices were used in Dol Amroth. Gúthwyn saw the sensibility in them, and noted that they looked more comfortable than a normal cradle.

With her nephew in hand, Gúthwyn approached his bed, keeping her back to Lothíriel so that the queen could change in private. Slowly she laid him down onto the soft mattress, pulling the blanket over him when he did not move against her. By the light of a nearby flame, she could see his forehead wrinkle as he sighed, and then smooth out again. He was positively adorable.

Once she had assured that he was as comfortable as he could be, she glanced over to where she had last seen Lothíriel. Her mouth opened slightly. The queen was already in bed and lost to the world, her weariness at last taking toll. _Sleep well,_ Gúthwyn bade her silently, no longer caring that they were supposed to be adversaries.

She lingered at Elfwine's cradle for a moment, looking down at the baby with a faint smile on her face.

"You will be just like your father someday," she murmured, keeping her voice quiet so as not to wake Lothíriel. "He is a good man… the Valar know where I would be without him."

Elfwine stirred a little, and for a second or two his hand poked out from underneath the blanket. It reached up, grasped at the air, and then was still.

"Yes," she confirmed. "Very much like your father."

"Gúthwyn?"

She turned to see Éomer in the doorway, glancing back and forth between her and Lothíriel. "Is she feeling ill?"

"Not at all," Gúthwyn assured him as he came to stand beside her. "She was tired. I offered to put him to bed."

Éomer nodded, and looked down at the infant. "Thank you," he said. "We both appreciate it."

"Say nothing of it," Gúthwyn replied, reaching down to gently stroke the fine wisps of hair on Elfwine's head. "He is a wonderful boy…"

"Aye," Éomer agreed, pride written across his face as he beheld his first son. Then he looked at Gúthwyn. "Surely, sister, you would want a child of your own?"

It felt to Éomund's daughter that the room then grew chilly, though there were many lit candles. "I have Hammel and Haiweth," she said, though she knew that was not what he had meant.

His voice was now softer. "Yet what about a son or a daughter that you brought to life, such as Lothíriel has borne me Elfwine?"

She shivered. "In order to do that, I would need a husband," she whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"You said you would look for one," Éomer quietly reminded her. "Do you not recall that conversation?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn answered, now regretting her promise. "So I did."

For a long time, Éomer looked at her. Then he said simply, "Someday you will be married."

The tears blurred Gúthwyn's vision, and she turned her gaze to Elfwine to avoid meeting her brother's.

"There was one man," she said, "to whom I would have given everything…"

Neither of them noticed the queen stirring, and after a moment she was still.

"But I am not a child anymore," Gúthwyn continued, and it seemed to her that she was old, aged far beyond her years with sorrow and grief. "He is gone."

Éomer lowered his voice, and the next words he spoke were like a knife cutting through her heart. "Sister, did you and he ever… did you ever share his bed?"

She lifted her head and looked at him. There was now such wetness in her eyes that she could hardly see him.

"I would not think any less of you if you did," he informed her, placing a hand on her arm as he beheld her distress.

"No," Gúthwyn said, a hollow ringing in her ears. "But what does it matter? Any man I take as a spouse will know I have not been faithful to him. I am no maiden, thanks to…" She trailed off, and neither of them mentioned Haldor's name.

"They will not blame you, if you tell them," Éomer said. "Nor was it ever your fault."

A long, mournful sigh escaped Gúthwyn. "Would that I need not wed another," she murmured.

"Never was there a happier day in my life than when I married Lothíriel," Éomer told her, and then added softly, "Besides the day that you returned." He exhaled a little. "I will see you a wife one day," he spoke. "I know it."

"May that time be long in coming," Gúthwyn replied, and fell silent.

For several minutes, neither of them said a word. At length, Éomer cleared his throat and looked over at her. "I received a letter from Legolas today," he announced.

Gúthwyn started, and a chill raced through her before she gained the mastery over it. "Y-You did?" she asked, struggling to keep her tone even.

He nodded. "He is journeying up to… ah, Eryn Lasgalen to visit his father. He wrote to inform me that he would be passing through our realm in two months' time."

Haldor skirted the edges of her mind; pushing here, pulling there, all the while hissing a string of words that made her want to cringe—_worthless, whore, pathetic, failure…_

"Will he be staying here?" she inquired, trying to keep the nausea from swelling inside her stomach.

Éomer's eyes met hers. "Would that be fine with you?" he asked. "Or are you just saying that?"

"I have no qualms with seeing him again," Gúthwyn answered, taking a deep breath. "It has been over two years since we last met."

"Sister, I would not want you to be afraid throughout the duration of his stay," Éomer said.

"I am not afraid," Gúthwyn insisted, somewhat louder than she had intended. She held her breath; yet neither Elfwine nor Lothíriel stirred. "I am not afraid," she repeated, her voice lower.

"Are you sure?" Éomer inquired, putting a hand on her shoulder and looking directly into her eyes.

Gúthwyn flinched, but nodded nevertheless. "I am sure," she confirmed, trying to convince herself that she was right. She had parted from Legolas on amicable terms… _Please,_ she prayed, _let me go through the duration of his stay without panicking._

Éomer lowered his arm. "I will write to him tomorrow, then," he said. "Gúthwyn, I…"

"Do not worry for me, brother," she replied, and then embraced him. "Goodnight," she said as she pulled away. "Rest well."

"You, too," he responded, and glanced down at Elfwine. "Thank you for getting him to sleep."

"You are welcome," Gúthwyn said, smiling. "I must say, I am enjoying being an aunt—even if he is loud sometimes."

"Sometimes?" Éomer repeated, shaking his head. "I was watching you with him," he added softly. "You are good with children."

She blushed at the praise, and then said, "I have Hammel and Haiweth to thank for that."

Éomer nodded at this. Gúthwyn was reminded of the day he had taken her and the children out to the River Snowbourn, in order to make up for missing her birthday. They had spent many hours teaching Hammel and Haiweth how to swim, with mixed results. Hammel had worked persistently at the strokes until he mastered them; yet Haiweth, to whom such movements came easier, had been far more reluctant to step in the water. It had taken no small amount of coaxing on Gúthwyn's part to convince her to go further than waist-deep—yet then she had clung to Éomund's daughter, afraid, for the better part of an hour until she was ready to attempt swimming.

As Éomund's daughter took one last look at Elfwine, it came to her suddenly that she would not mind having a baby.

The sensation disturbed her, and though the room was warm she shivered.

* * *

When Gúthwyn stepped out into the great hall a moment later, she stood still for a time, wrapping her arms around herself. Though her gaze was directed towards the remaining advisors and captains, who had lingered to finish discussing whatever business concerned them that night, she could hardly see them. Instead, her mind's eye rested upon memories of Legolas and Haldor, their bodies shifting and interchangeable, replacing each other frequently.

To be honest with herself, she could not quite determine how she felt about Legolas' imminent visit. A part of her, of course, cringed from the idea, and waited for the inevitable nightmares that would plague her when he arrived. Yet the other half was disheartened that she could not overcome her terror. Haldor had been dead for more than three years, and he had not bedded her in four; could she not now begin to forget all that he had done to her? Why could she not put him aside?

_You know why,_ a voice inside her head replied, and she trembled, painfully aware that it was right. He had broken her—he had destroyed her innocence and pride, ripping away her dignity until there was nothing left of it. He had raped her and mocked her and toyed with her, keeping her as helpless as a mouse in a cat's lair. Because of him, her body was ruined, and her mind was a prisoner of itself. She would forever be bound to him, her thoughts invaded by him when she least expected it and when she least wanted it. She would never be free.

The longer Gúthwyn stood there, the more blurred her vision became, until the room disappeared in a glittering haze. She hated Haldor. She hated him for all that he had done to her, for all that she had done to him. She hated him because, even after three years of being forced to share his bed, she had not been able to muster up the courage to kill him. After being tortured and manipulated, she could not bring herself to take her sword and slit his throat. He had only perished because it had been a choice between his life and hers, because the Lady Galadriel's dagger had been in its sheathe at the right time.

She hated him because he was her constant companion.

"Gúthwyn?"

Éomund's daughter started, and hastily blinked away the tears in her eyes to see Gamling standing in front of her. He looked at her concernedly. "Is everything all right?" he inquired. "You did not see me when I waved at you, and then you started shaking…"

She realized that he was right. Her hands were quivering. As quick as she could, she clutched them together, hoping to still the motions. "S-Sorry," she muttered, and swallowed her misery. "I was lost in my thoughts. Forgive me."

He was still glancing at her guardedly. "Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, I am," she reassured him, encouraged as her voice grew stronger. She even managed to smile at him. "What were you discussing? You seemed very preoccupied when I first saw you."

"It was the monthly meeting about the realm's affairs," Gamling answered, returning her smile. "Éomer left early—he grew weary of the advisors arguing over the best way to import dyes from Dol Amroth. I myself could hardly understand a word they were saying."

"Other than Cobryn, can anyone?" Gúthwyn wondered aloud, and the captain chuckled.

"Certainly not with the racket Elfwine has been making," Gamling said. "Imrahil did not need a letter to know that his grandson was born—he could likely hear him all the way from the Sea!"

"I do not doubt that," Gúthwyn replied, laughing a little. "But all babes are wont to cry. In a month or two, the household will be much quieter."

"I am looking forward to it," Gamling said, and bowed. "I must leave now. Goodnight, my lady."

Remembering her manners, Gúthwyn curtsied. "Goodnight, my lord," she said, and smiled once more, glad that he had taken her out of her tormented recollections.

His eyes met hers just before he left, and for the briefest instant something flickered within their depths that was not entirely friendship.


	47. The Luckiest Man In the World

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Forty-Seven:  
**Just to let everyone know: I have no idea how to take care of a baby, given that I've never had one before. Most of the information I got off of the Internet, so if there is anything grossly wrong with my portrayal of Elfwine's upbringing, please let me know! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

As the time of Legolas' visit drew closer, Gúthwyn found herself experiencing a recurrence in the nightmares that she had thought were wearing away. She began waking up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and terrified that Haldor was lurking in the dark corners of her room. So many candles did she then light that Cobryn started to worry that her chambers would catch fire, and took to blowing half of them out after she had fallen asleep.

During the day, she struggled to conceal her increasingly frayed nerves. In order to take her mind off of them, she flung herself into her training sessions, and also helped Lothíriel care for Elfwine. The queen was clearly awkward around children, not to mention still worn out from her labor. Gúthwyn was more than willing to aid her, especially since the king's heir became far more tolerable than he had been the first few weeks of his life.

Elfwine seemed to take well to her—likely, as she often thought to herself with a wry grin, because she let him play with her hair—and rarely gave her any trouble. Éomer had tentatively asked her if she would watch him whenever both he and Lothíriel attended council meetings; to this she readily agreed, and was soon engaged in the process of getting to know her nephew better.

On one occasion, she took Elfwine outside, thinking it would be good for him to get some fresh air. As she stepped out of the Golden Hall, firmly holding him in her arms, his head began to twist around, staring in awe at the still-unfamiliar sights. "Someday, little one," she informed him, making her way down the stairs, "this will all be yours."

The future king gurgled, yanking on his aunt's hair and smiling up at her. Gúthwyn chuckled. "Not yet, of course," she continued, swaying back and forth so that he did not grow fidgety. "But when you are old enough to take the responsibilities of ruling a proud kingdom."

As she spoke, she lingered in front of Meduseld, not wanting to stray so far that Éomer and Lothíriel would worry. Her eyes wandered over the main street, content to watch her people. It was late in the afternoon; most of their work was now finished, and they were free to enjoy themselves in whatever ways they chose. Haiweth she could see a few houses away, playing a game of tag with her friends. Since Gúthwyn was watching Elfwine, she had excused the girl from her lessons, much to her delight.

Hammel… Her brow knitted as she sought him out. Earlier he had said that he would be reading by the well, yet there was a large group of people in front of it and she could not see him. Standing on her tiptoes—though it did almost nothing to enhance her view, as she was shorter than most of them—Gúthwyn strained to catch a glimpse of him. Eventually, she lowered herself back to the ground and moved a few feet over.

When she at length rested her gaze upon him, a small smirk tugged at her lips. For now she realized exactly why Hammel had gone to the well: Aldeth. Drawing water from its depths was evidently one of the girl's chores. Gúthwyn would not have been surprised if Hammel had determined the exact time she did it. As it were, the boy still held his book in his hands, but his eyes were not on the words.

She could not hear a sentence the two of them exchanged. However, their conversation was brief, and Aldeth bid him farewell with a smile on her face. Both Gúthwyn and Hammel watched as she crossed the street and returned to her home, her steps light as she slipped inside and shut the door behind her. Long after she had disappeared Hammel stared at where she had been, his fingers idly flipping the pages in his book.

Knowing that he would be embarrassed if he glanced over and saw her, Gúthwyn directed her attentions elsewhere, though it was tempting to look back to the boy and see whether or not he had returned to his book. "I wonder if he will ever say anything to her," she speculated in a hushed tone to Elfwine, who did not understand a word she was saying. "After all, he certainly observes her closely enough…"

Then she fell silent, for someone had called her name. For a moment, she surveyed the crowd. At length, she became aware that Lebryn was approaching her. Her brow knitted when she caught sight of his expression. The usual smirk he bore was gone, replaced with lips pressed thinly together and a pair of troubled eyes that were fixed on her. As he drew closer, he happened to look at Elfwine. His shoulders tensed.

"What is wrong?" she asked him, cradling Elfwine closer to her. At the sight of her friend, the baby had started fussing, and appeared on the verge of tears.

He took a deep breath, and his voice was low as he replied, "I need to talk to you about something."

"Of course," Gúthwyn said, wondering what on Middle-earth had gotten him so preoccupied. She would have been tempted to laugh at him, had something inside her not warned that whatever he had to say was serious. "What is it?"

Lebryn cast dark glances around them, checking for eavesdroppers. Her confusion grew. "Do you promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone?"

Gúthwyn's mind flashed through all the things he could possibly be about to tell her. Would it be wise of her to agree to something that she did not know the nature of?

He saw her attention, and hissed, "Promise me!"

Startled, for a moment she said nothing. Elfwine whimpered.

"Swear it!" he demanded, his eyes so wild that she stepped backwards.

"I swear!" she exclaimed hastily, trying to calm her nephew. Gently she rocked him, though her eyes were on Lebryn. "What has happened?"

For a brief instant, words seemed to fail him. Then he swallowed, and muttered, "I spoke with Celewen today."

When she stared at him blankly, he elaborated. "Gamling's niece."

Gúthwyn flushed in mortification and gazed determinedly at the ground, remembering how she had walked in on the two of them making love to each other behind the stables. Hot, fresh embarrassment rolled through her, and tendrils of nausea wove themselves throughout her stomach.

Evidently, Lebryn was all too aware of what she was thinking, for he hesitated. Finally he said, "She, ah… She is…"

_No,_ Gúthwyn thought, lifting her head and looking straight at him. _Please, do not let him say what I think he is going to say._

The Valar were not listening. "She is pregnant," he at last managed, his voice cracking on the last word.

There was silence.

"Oh, Lebryn," Gúthwyn whispered at last, a numb buzzing in her ears. Elfwine was quiet, his curious eyes moving back and forth between her and the man she had known ever since he was a stubborn, bitter boy. "Is it—did she say—are you the—?"

He nodded miserably. "She has no doubt of it."

"Oh, Lebryn," she said again, her mouth opening in horror. "You are only nineteen…"

"Almost twenty," he corrected her, though it made no difference.

"You fool," she choked out, feeling as if she were on the verge of crying. "I told you, Lebryn, I told you… why did you not listen?"

"Look," he snapped, glaring at her, "I do not need you to give me a lecture. Cobryn will take care of that soon enough."

"And he has every reason to!" she retorted, struggling to swallow the lump in her throat. "Now you have to marry her, Lebryn!"

"It is not that bad," he said defensively. Yet his eyes dropped to the ground, and his voice was somber as he added, "At least I talked to her once in awhile—not like with the others…"

Gúthwyn felt as if she were going to be sick. "Do you not realize what you have done?" she demanded. "You have thrown your life away for the price of—" She could not finish the sentence, and instead held Elfwine closer to her. "You idiot!"

"Forget it," Lebryn snarled. "I thought you of all people… never mind. Forget I said anything."

With that, he whirled around and began walking away, his back rigid and his hands clenched into fists.

"Lebryn, wait!" Gúthwyn called, taking a half step towards him.

He paused, and after nearly a minute turned to look at her. "What?" he asked, his dark eyes smoldering.

"Why did you tell me this?" she wanted to know, searching his face for an answer that he might not give.

"Because," he said, something flickering in his gaze. "I thought you at least would show some sympathy. But obviously you have been around Cobryn too long."

Before she had a chance to say anything, he stormed away, leaving her and Elfwine in a shocked disbelief. The king's heir was the first to recover. He started wailing, his face screwed up in unhappiness. Snapping herself out of her stupor, Gúthwyn set about calming him. "Do not worry, little one," she murmured soothingly, smiling down at him. "He is gone now."

She kissed his nose, eliciting a giggle from him, and soon he had contented himself with tugging her hair. Her thoughts returned to Lebryn once more. She did not know whether or not to feel sorry for him: He certainly had been warned of what his conduct would lead to, and had chosen to ignore such cautions. Yet at the same time, she could not help but feel terrible for him—he was so young, and now he would have to settle down with a wife. _This is not even his home,_ she thought, cringing.

"Gúthwyn?"

Startled, she glanced up to see Gamling approaching her. The captain inclined his head, and then said with a smile, "This is the second time in two days you have not noticed my greeting. I am beginning to think that you are ignoring me."

"Oh, I am sorry," Gúthwyn replied, flustered. She had not meant to give him that impression. Firmly, she banished thoughts of Lebryn from her mind, though not before wondering if Gamling knew his niece's condition. "I was not paying attention to my surroundings."

"That I can see," he snorted, and then drew closer. "How is Elfwine doing?"

"Well," Gúthwyn answered happily, rocking the child. "He is adorable." Elfwine, gurgling, reached up and yanked at her locks. "He is also enchanted with my hair."

"That is no surprise to me," Gamling commented, looking at her.

Though Gúthwyn giggled, she felt rather awkward, and said, "It is the same way with Lothíriel. She just does not let him play with it."

"Have you been taking care of him often?" Gamling questioned. "We have missed you on the training grounds of late."

"I promised Éomer that I would help watch him while he and Lothíriel were attending meetings," Gúthwyn answered, trying not to show how flattered she was by his remark. "If I can manage it, I will attempt to wake up earlier and get some practice in before noon."

"That will be a sight worth seeing," Gamling chuckled. "I shall look for you, then. It has been long since we sparred together."

"Aye, it has," Gúthwyn agreed.

At that moment, the captain glanced up, and his eyes fixed on something over her shoulder. "I think your brother wants to speak with you," he said.

Gúthwyn followed his gaze and saw that he was right. Éomer had appeared on the landing; he was making his way towards the stairs, clearly intending to talk to her.

"Farewell," Gamling bade her with a bow. "I hope to see you on the training grounds soon."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said, flushing. "Have a good day."

As the captain resumed his walk down the street, she turned to meet her brother. "Good afternoon," she said, smiling.

Upon seeing his father, Elfwine strained to reach him. Carefully, Gúthwyn handed him over, making sure that his head was supported the entire time. Once her nephew was safe she relaxed, settling into a more comfortable stance and looking at Éomer. "How was the meeting?" she asked.

Éomer shrugged, cradling Elfwine in his strong arms. "It went well enough. We went over some reports Erkenbrand sent from Helm's Deep. Did Elfwine behave?"

She grinned. "Of course he did."

"I cannot begin to thank you for watching him," Éomer told her, the relief evident in his eyes. "Unfortunately, Bregwyn is only available for a few hours each day," he continued, referring to Elfwine's nurse. "She has her own children to take care of. Would that it were enough…"

"I am more than happy to help," Gúthwyn assured him. "He is a most charming nephew."

Éomer's face glowed with pride. "Is that so, my son?" he asked Elfwine, lifting him up above his head. Elfwine's eyes widened, but he was in sturdy hands, and soon he was smiling again. A stream of baby sounds poured from his mouth. The king of Rohan laughed, his eyes sparkling in delight.

Gúthwyn watched the two of them and wondered if Lebryn would ever be half the father that her brother was.

* * *

When Éomer awoke in the middle of the night, his first thought was that his son had been crying. The Valar knew how often he had roused them from sleep with his wails; even Gúthwyn and the children, who slept at the other end of Meduseld, were affected by a lack of sufficient rest. But as he glanced over at Elfwine's cradle, he saw that this was not the case—at least, not tonight. The baby was quiet, his chest rising and falling peacefully.

Yawning, Éomer looked at his wife. Lothíriel was also fast asleep, her lips slightly open. For a moment, he was sorely tempted to kiss her. _She needs the rest,_ he reminded himself, sighing a little. Though she had certainly never resisted his advances, he needed to keep what was best for her in mind. Besides, he had just made love to her last night—that was enough to hold him over until she had recovered her strength. Elfwine was a handful of a child, one that would make any mother weary.

He decided to get a drink of water; he had consumed only a small amount of wine at dinner, and his throat was in dire need of more fluids. As quietly as possible, he pulled the covers off of him, careful to keep Lothíriel warm. She stirred briefly when he left the bed, but though he paused and waited, she made no further movement. Glad that he had not disturbed her, he edged out of the room, leaving the door ajar so that he would not have to open it a second time.

As he emerged into the throne room, he was able to see by the light of some torches a tapestry that had hung for years uncounted along the far wall. It depicted Eorl the Young riding to the Fields of Celebrant. His hair shone golden, though the hall was dim, and his horse Felaróf was rearing up beneath him. The animal had been tamed by Eorl after it had thrown his father Léod to the ground when the king tried to mount him, resulting in the man's death. Only sixteen at the time, Eorl had tracked the stallion down and demanded the surrender of its freedom in exchange for his father's life.

_The man must have been a formidable rider,_ Éomer thought to himself. _To lead his people so far to help the Gondorians…_

He sighed. The days of glory were passing. Sauron had been defeated—there would be no more valiant cavalry charges, with the adrenaline rushing through each Rider's veins and their swords shining in the sun. He could not help but miss those moments, though by no means was he sorry that the Dark Lord had been vanquished. Now that peace in the Riddermark was being established, he would have to content himself with practicing at the training grounds.

As he turned away from the picture somewhat wistfully, he caught sight of the corridor leading to Gúthwyn's chambers. He decided to check on her. The brotherly instincts within him had arisen, and he suddenly felt a need to make sure she was sleeping well. The time that she had come to him, trembling from a nightmare and wild-eyed in the dark, was still fresh in his mind, try though he might to suppress it.

He made his way across the hall and then walked down the passage, keeping his steps light so as not to wake anyone. Gúthwyn's door was not fully closed, yet the crack was so small that he could not see into her room. Glad that it did not creak, he eased it open. What he saw made his jaw drop in shock.

There were candles upon every single surface, their flames dancing brightly and casting light shadows on the walls. So many of them were there that Éomer could not count them on his fingers. Though he knew it was night, it almost seemed to be day. Wax dripped down them all, creating the scent that he had smelled when he had gone into her room on her birthday.

"What were you thinking?" he muttered, now realizing that Gúthwyn must have done this every night since she had returned to Rohan. Terror flooded through him as he thought of all the times she had been exposed to a raging fire. What if one of the candles had accidentally knocked over? All of the furniture was wooden… His face paled as he imagined her bed bursting into flames.

He went over to the nearest candle and blew it out, making sure the noise was as quiet as possible. Systematically, he roved around the entire room, extinguishing all of the flickering tongues of fire. While he was keenly aware that she was afraid of the dark, he reasoned with himself that she would not wake up—after all, if she managed to sleep until noon, it likely took an extremely loud noise to disturb her rest.

The last candle he came to was on Gúthwyn's nightstand. For a moment he stood there, looking down at his sister. Her face was so innocent… She and Lothíriel were similar in that regard, he mused, smiling a little. Yet then he frowned: A thin sheen of sweat had formed on her brow. Confused, he made to put his hand on her forehead, wondering if she had a fever. Then he saw that she had piled at least two thick blankets on top of her, even though it was the middle of the summer.

Bewildered, he bent over and started to pull one back. He could not pretend that he understood this in the slightest. What had been going through her mind when she prepared for bed that night—why on Middle-earth would she put so many covers on? He and Lothíriel were using the thinnest comforter they had.

Once he was done, he whispered goodnight to her and blew out the last candle. The room was thrown into darkness. Luckily, the door was still open, and by the light from the hallway he was able to see enough so that he did not trip over anything. Slowly he edged out of the room, closing the door softly as he emerged into the passage. "Sleep well," he murmured.

When he returned to his bed a few minutes later, he saw to his chagrin that Lothíriel was awake. "Where were you?" she asked as he settled in next to her, apologizing.

"I went to get a drink of water," he answered quietly. "I am sorry; I did not mean to worry you."

She shook her head. "Say nothing of it," she replied. "I am glad that you are here."

What had he done to deserve such a wonderful wife? Éomer leaned over and kissed her softly on the lips, something he had been desiring to do for a long time. "So am I," he said as he pulled away, and then recaptured her mouth once more.

Lothíriel did not hesitate to respond. All of her fatigue was gone; their tongues were now wrestling furiously, and her arms were wrapped around his neck. "I love you," she breathed the one time they separated, so that she could tug at his nightshirt. As their kisses grew more intense and he began to divest her of her shift, Éomer thought that he was the luckiest man in the world.


	48. Nightmare

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Forty-Eight:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Forty-Eight**

_The voices were surrounding her. They did not take a human shape, nor any other form; yet she knew they were there. Always out of reach, never something to be touched… but still they called to her, whispering, hissing words that made her tremble in fear. They were guiding her, telling her where to place her feet, bringing her through a dark mist to where she knew they were taking her._

_The cage. It loomed up suddenly, though her heart detected its presence long before and quailed. She was powerless to stop the voices, however. They had always had a firm grip on her… Mordor had merely strengthened their clutch._

Come to us, Gúthwyn… You cannot hide…

_She could not. The door to her nightmares swung ominously open, and with her head bowed she stepped inside. Once, long ago, the torches had lit for her. But now nothing penetrated the blackness. She was blind. Meekly, wanting to be anywhere else but here, she moved forward. The Wargs were close… She smelled the stench of rotting flesh, of slaves who had succumbed to the lullaby of death and of other, unmentionable things._

_There was a pause. The voices had momentarily abandoned her. She was now doubtful, unsure of where to go. What was she doing here? What madness had made her pursue this course?_

"_I did," someone snarled._

_Before she had time to turn around, a pair of hands as cold as ice seized her by the arms. "I did," Haldor repeated, and his words were drowned out by her terrified shrieks. Or they would have been, had she made a sound: Her mouth opened in terror, but nothing came out._

_He laughed, and the echoes of it bounced cruelly off of the walls. She cringed. "Did you really think you could escape me?" he demanded, turning her around. She was pressed into his chest, unable to move. "Did you think that you would find refuge here?"_

"_N-No," she whispered, attempting to separate herself from him._

_Haldor knew what she was doing, and in one swift motion yanked her head upwards and clamped his lips down on hers. Panic drove through her—she could not breathe. As his tongue sought to devour hers she struggled frantically, beating uselessly at his arms. "Let go!" she tried to scream, but he merely made his motions rougher. She could not even call it a kiss; it felt as if her lips would be bruised when he pulled away._

_When he finally released her, she could not even cry out for lack of air. Her heavy breathing echoed throughout the cage. "Stop," she at last whispered feebly. "Please, stop."_

_Again he laughed, the sounds mocking her every word. "Stop?" he chuckled. "I have only just begun… it has been far too long since I had you."_

_Her pleas turned to whimpers. "No," she choked out. "No!"_

"_Kiss me," was his answer, and he leaned towards her once more._

_She had no choice but to comply. She had always obeyed him without question in his bed… But now, as their tongues met, she responding to his explorations fiercely, a sliver of doubt wove its way through her. _Why am I doing this?_ she wondered. _I never want to touch him again—why am I kissing him merely because he ordered me to?

_It was the beginning of a realization, but all too soon it was over. He seemed to sense her hesitation, and this time his hands slipped into her hair. Drawing back a little, he asked, "Do you remember it?"_

_Confused, she stammered, "W-What?"_

"_The night you made love to me," he breathed, and a cold chill ran up her spine. "Do you still recall it?"_

"_I never…" She trailed off._

"_You did," he replied. Had she been able to see anything of him beyond a faint outline, she knew his eyes would have been gleaming._

_Unbidden, tears began forming in her own. She had betrayed Borogor that night; she might as well have stomped on his grave._

_Suddenly, Haldor ordered, "Put your arms around my neck."_

_Almost automatically, she did as he told her. What did it matter now that his hands were drifting to the laces of her nightgown? What did it matter now that his lips were so close to her neck that, when he spoke, she could feel tiny vibrations in her throat? He was her owner, her master—the one who controlled her as a puppet is manipulated on its strings._

No,_ some part of her protested. _You do not belong to him! What of your pride?

What pride?_ she wondered miserably. _I am a whore—what dignity do I have left?

Listen to yourself!_ the other half exclaimed. _What would Éomer say if he heard you speak such things?

_She could not heed that piece of her. Courage and bravery were follies; what had Haldor ever rewarded her with for them? He would let her go if she begged… but he would break her if she did not._

_And now Haldor wrapped one of the ties to her nightgown around his finger, and said, "Undress me."_

_All of the breath left her throat. Whether she was his or not, she had never taken his clothes off. _Or have I?_ she suddenly thought, remembering how her hands had slipped down to his leggings on the night she had spat on Borogor's dead body._

"_You heard me," Haldor growled when she did not move. "Do it."_

_This time, the tears began streaming down her cheeks. They were silent, and because it was so dark, he knew not that they were there—but her face was wet with them as she started pulling off his shirt. He let go of her long enough to lift his arms over his head, but once his tunic had fallen to the ground he reclaimed his grip on her._

Borogor, please, forgive me,_ she prayed as she worked, trying to ignore how she was removing Haldor's leggings. _I have no choice, I cannot break free…

"_Well done," Haldor said when she had finished, her eyes red with shame. No compliment had ever driven itself so painfully into her heart. She felt as if it were shattering… and yet it was already in a million pieces. What was the importance of a few more?_

_Haldor gave a swift tug, and the next thing she was aware of was the soft thump of her nightgown hitting the floor. Her mind began detaching from her body, building the frail wall of ignorance that she had so often used as a guard against what the Elf was doing to her. There were so many holes in it… By the Valar, she was freezing. Her whole body was shivering._

_He took no notice of her discomfort. Instead, he let go of her. Her legs wavered and she fell to the floor, landing in a puddle. A coppery tang was in the air as he settled on top of her. Involuntarily, her legs parted, and she could feel him at her entrance. She would be shamed again. At least this time she could close her eyes, for he would not know that she had. Yet the fact gave her no consolation._

_And the darkness… It was everywhere, smothering her, more than even Haldor was. She only recognized a dim pain as he thrust inside her, but her blindness was so acute that she truly thought she would suffocate. Her panic grew; however, even as it reached heights it had never gone to before, her limbs became weighed down as if they were lead and she could not struggle._

_Her last thought before everything left her was that she was still kissing Haldor._

Gúthwyn awoke with a start, unable to breathe. She had forgotten how. For what felt like years, she lay there, the pressure building within her lungs until she thought they would explode. Her entire body was paralyzed; she could not move. Fear manifested itself in her. _I am going to die,_ she thought, trying to sit up and failing. _I am going to die._ Slowly, using all of her willpower, she clenched her fingers into a fist.

The first breath of life came back to her. She gasped and bolted up, massaging her chest as she panted feverishly. Her arms and legs were shaking. The remnants of her dream were still clinging to her. Faint moans escaped her mouth, yet she did not even have the energy to throw up.

_Is my nightgown on?_ she wondered, quivering at the idea that somehow it had come off. Haldor had undone the laces…

Then she realized that she could not see if it were so. For a moment, she blinked rapidly. No, it was still dark—so dark that nothing pierced the gloom. _My candles,_ she thought wildly, twisting and turning to see, horrified, that they had all been blown out. _Why are they gone?_

Gúthwyn broke out into a sweat. Whimpering, she grasped her blankets, drawing them up to her nose and making sure that not an inch of her below that point was exposed to the blackness. _Cobryn would never extinguish all of them,_ she thought, her teeth beginning to chatter.

A heart-stopping spike of fear then drove through her: What if someone else had, and they were in her room right now?

"No, no, please, go away!" she begged, feeling a sob rising within her throat. "Haldor, go away…"

There was no response. Gúthwyn began crying softly, too afraid to do anything else. She did not dare lean over her bed to vomit: what if she was grabbed? Nor could she muster the courage to go outside, take one of the torches from the wall, and use it to search her chambers for an intruder: what if she touched them on her way out? She could not leave her bed, her oasis of safety. And so she wept, hating herself for being so foolish, and too terrified to stop herself.

That was when she heard the noise. It was the very soft sound of someone's foot on the floor—and it was right beside her nightstand.

Gúthwyn leaped out of her bed, getting tangled in her blankets halfway through and tumbling with a crash onto the floor. Her head knocked off the top of her trunk and was soon pounding, but with adrenaline rushing through her veins she frantically kicked at her covers until they had dislodged themselves. Once she was free, she scrambled to her feet, falling twice before she managed to stand.

All the while believing that someone would lunge out and close their hand around her wrist, she bolted for the door. She flung herself at it, her fingers slipping on the handle so many times that she nearly screamed in frustration. When at last she was able to open it, she darted out into the hallway, running as fast as she was able to. No sooner had she entered the throne room than she sprinted towards Cobryn's pallet.

She dropped to her knees so abruptly that they would ache for days afterwards. Her breathing ragged, Gúthwyn took a hold of his shoulders and started shaking them. She needed him. She needed him to protect her—Éomer had a wife now, he could not do it.

"Cobryn, wake up!" she whispered hoarsely.

His eyes opened, and widened as they focused on her. He had barely sat up before she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest, breathing in his scent and on the verge of sobbing again.

"Gúthwyn," she heard him say sharply, and felt his vise-like grip on her shoulders. He used his hold to separate them. She was forced to look into his eyes, narrowed in puzzlement and alarm. "What happened?" he demanded.

"Dark!" she gasped, drawing a shuddering breath. "Dark a-and no c-c-candles and I could not… I could not breathe and H-Haldor a-and I could—could not move—H-H-Haldor there, he… he… he…"

She was babbling. Her voice broke halfway through and she gagged, feeling as if she were going to be sick.

Something struck her across the face. "Gúthwyn, listen to me!" Cobryn ordered. "You are making no sense!"

Éomund's daughter pressed her brow against her friend's. "Candles gone!" she choked out, her breath hitching on each word. "Gone! Gone, gone…" She repeated it, over and over, trying to make him understand.

Before she knew what was happening, she felt herself being rocked violently back and forth. She cried out, but her voice got lost before it entered her throat, and no sound escaped her.

"Gúthwyn, take deep breaths!" Cobryn instructed her as he let go. "In and out—count—"

She did not know how to count anymore. Instead she reached out for him, needing something to hold onto. "S-Scared," she whispered.

His brown eyes fixed on hers. "You are safe," he said firmly, letting her take one of his hands and clutch it so hard that it turned white. "You are safe. Nothing can hurt you."

Though Gúthwyn knew he was wrong, though she knew that there was someone in her room, she could not help but feel reassured by his voice. Gradually, her body became stiller. She took several quivering breaths. "Cobryn…"

"What happened?" he asked quietly, leaning closer to her.

"Nightmare," she said, cringing. "H-H-Haldor… dark…"

"Your greatest fears," he spoke softly, almost to himself.

Such was her state that she bowed her head, and did not deny the truth in his speech. "The cage," she added, unable to elucidate, simply trusting that he would understand her. He nodded. "I-I-I woke up… the candles… gone…"

"What do you mean, 'gone'?" Cobryn questioned, his gaze holding hers.

"No light," she said, her voice high-pitched. "All out. I could see… I could see nothing!"

"I did not blow them out," he swiftly informed her. "I swear to you, I did not."

Gúthwyn shook her head. "Someone else… th-there was a noise in my room!"

"And you say you saw nothing?" he pressed.

"N-Nothing," she confirmed, and then said, "I do not want to go back."

There was a silence. "You have to," he replied at length.

"No!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, terrified of returning. "Did you not hear me? Th-There is someone inside it! And no light—"

"Gúthwyn," Cobryn cut her off, placing a hand on her shoulder. "There is no one in your room. If anyone had come in through the doors, I would have heard them."

"W-What if they did not come through the doors?" she asked, and the next instant realized how irrational her suggestion was. There was no other way into the Golden Hall.

"I will go with you," Cobryn said. "I promise, there is no one in your room."

She hesitated. Fear was still rooted deep within her, reluctant to disentwine itself. "I-I…"

"Come," he said, and got to his feet. Though she was preoccupied with the prospect of reentering her chambers, Gúthwyn could not help but notice that he struggled a little with his motions.

"A-Are you all right?" she inquired, wrapping her arms around herself as he withdrew his protection.

"It is the weather," was his explanation. "My Valar-forsaken leg pains me when it is about to rain."

Gúthwyn wondered at this, but she did not have much time in which to do so. All too soon, he extended his hand down to her. "Are you ready?"

For a full minute, she merely gazed up at him, trembling. "Yes," she at last muttered, and let him pull her up. She adjusted her grip on his hand as he put his other arm around her, using it to steer her through the hall when she became less eager to walk.

When they came to the corridor that led to her room, Cobryn lifted a torch from the wall. He had to let go of her in order to do so; she immediately felt vulnerable, and drew closer to him. Slowly they neared her chambers. Gúthwyn was quaking now, incapable of stopping herself. By the time Cobryn pushed open the door, she thought she was in danger of losing her entire dinner.

At first, the room was pitch black, and she whimpered, but gradually her eyes adjusted to the flickering torch light. Nevertheless, she kept to Cobryn's side as he relit all the candles. The knot in her chest lessened only somewhat when she saw no skulking outline of a person. Nor did she feel entirely safe, even after all of the candles were glowing brightly. What if the intruder was hiding under her bed?

She said so to Cobryn, and he reminded her that they had stored all of the winter linens and clothing in the space between her mattress and the floor. "There is not an inch through which anyone could move," he remarked.

The logic of this sentence was like a wave crashing down over her head. Gúthwyn realized that she was acting as if she were mad. Hot, burning humiliation swept over her. She stood there, her arms shaking as she curled her fingers into fists, and tried not to imagine what Cobryn now thought about her. Why had she gone to pieces like that, and clung to him as if she were a child? Why had she convinced herself that someone was in her room?

"Gúthwyn?" he asked then.

She lifted her head to look at him, now trembling in mortification. "S-Sorry," she whispered, flinching.

"For what?"

To her horror, tears began forming in her eyes. "Why am I so weak?" she choked out miserably. "W-What is wrong with me?"

"Listen to me," Cobryn said, and put a strong hand on her shoulder. "You are not weak. A coward would have killed themselves before enduring half of what you went through. A coward would not have survived your years at Isengard, nor would they have emerged from that cage alive."

"B-But the nightmares…" She trailed off, cringing at the mention of the cage.

"Anyone would have nightmares if they had had the same experience as you," Cobryn replied. "Nor are you the only one in Meduseld who gets them."

Her eyes widened. "You do, too?"

"As I said," Cobryn continued, momentarily glancing away, "do not think yourself alone in this regard. You are not weak."

She fell silent, staring at the floor.

"You should try to get some rest," he spoke. "It is past midnight."

Gúthwyn was suddenly exhausted, but at the thought of allowing herself to become susceptible to nightmares again made her quail. "No," she replied, shaking her head.

"Sooner or later, you are going to have to fall asleep," he reminded her. "Why not now?"

"W-Will you stay with me if… if I do?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Of course," he said. "I will make sure that most of the candles stay lit." He always blew out those that were closest to the walls or the edges of tables; that she would grant him, for although her fear of the dark was by far the greater, she did not wish for her room to go up in flames.

"Th-Thank you," she murmured, and then turned to her bed. Now she saw that the noise she had heard—the one that had driven her from her chambers—had only been Beregil's book, falling to the floor from its precarious perch on her nightstand. She had been reading it before she had closed her eyes.

Her cheeks flushed as she climbed onto her bed, though not before picking the book up and tenderly putting it back in its place. She was a fool. The things that she let panic her were so small, so miniscule, that any child would have laughed at them. Yet she was the one going as far under the covers as she could, curling up into a tiny ball and still shivering. She was the one who was afraid of going to sleep, of the terrifying dreams that haunted her.

"Goodnight," Cobryn said as her motions were stilled. He had pulled up a chair so that he was sitting right beside her bed; she, in turn, had inched closer to him, and was now able to reach out and touch him.

She took his hand. "Good morning," she whispered, a faint smile on her face.

"Aye," he said. "That, as well."

"Cobryn?" she murmured as her eyes were closing.

"Yes?"

"When you next talk to Lebryn… ask him what he is to do with the rest of his life."

It was with this remark, peculiar to Cobryn, that Gúthwyn managed to fall asleep. Her steady breathing soon entered his ears, and he no longer felt inclined to leave her. Instead, he lingered until the first fringes of dawn showed themselves upon the sky. Then he arose, blew out the potentially dangerous candles, and left the room.

Neither of them had noticed that his stay in her chambers had not gone unmarked.


	49. The Morning After

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Forty-Nine:  
**Just to let everyone know: I have no idea how to take care of a baby, given that I've never had one before. Most of the information I got off of the Internet, so if there is anything grossly wrong with my portrayal of Elfwine's upbringing, please let me know! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Forty-Nine**

After she and her husband made love to each other, Lothíriel could not fall asleep. Nor was she particularly regretful of the fact: The sight of Éomer lying half-naked beside her was certainly pleasing, as was listening to the soft sighs of Elfwine. For the first time in awhile, the queen of Rohan felt content, knowing that this was where she truly belonged.

Never in the days of enduring countless suitors courting her had she imagined that she would end up so happy. She had thought herself doomed to a loveless marriage, made only for the sake of a political alliance or an economic gain. As much as she detested the idea, female relations of a ruler were the pawns of their king, able to be given away as gifts for a distant leader's loyalty or as promises of allegiance. But Éomer was not like the simpering nobles who wanted her only for her beauty and the benefits that came from having her as their wife.

A smile came to her face. She loved Éomer greatly, even if he was sometimes oblivious to her feelings. Then again, no one had ever accused men of being perceptive to the emotions of women. It was a fact of life; Lothíriel was more than willing to overlook it, especially when her husband tried so hard to please her.

Well, in most cases. A faint frown came to her face as she thought of Gúthwyn. Éomer did not seem to realize how often he placed his sister before his own wife. Her fists clenched as she remembered how he had taken her and her children out to the River Snowbourn not three days after she had given birth to Elfwine. _Ilúvatar forbid that poor Gúthwyn not be fawned over on her birthday!_ she thought bitterly. The woman was twenty-three; it was time Éomer stopped fussing over her and paid attention to those who needed him.

For she still had to rely on her husband for translating the speech of her own people. Try as she might, she could not grasp the language of the Rohirrim. It was too harsh for her voice, and those whom she was conversing with had such thick accents that she could barely discern the words. While Cobryn had picked up the tongue immediately, and now spoke it as fluently as her husband, she continued to struggle—it angered her, that a former slave and a friend of Gúthwyn's could understand her own people far better than she could.

_As if I am not enough of a stranger,_ she thought dismally. It hurt her to know that the Rohirrim did not hold the same regard for her as they did for Gúthwyn. None of them had ever been impolite to her, but the fact remained that she had hardly spoken with any of the civilians. Gúthwyn, on the other hand, joined them every day for training practice, washing, and the Valar knew what else. She commanded true respect from the Eorlingas, while Lothíriel was just their queen, someone whom they were deferential to merely because of her station.

_How is it that she is always better than I in everyone's eyes?_ Lothíriel wondered, feeling a lump form in her throat. Quickly she swallowed it, trying to ignore how much the realization stung. No matter what she did, it seemed as if Gúthwyn was constantly upstaging her. She was the one whom commoners approached in the street, while they all gave Lothíriel as wide a berth as possible. And she was the one whom Éomer constantly worried about, rather than the wife who had just borne him the heir to his kingdom.

Lothíriel sighed. She had not wanted to think about Gúthwyn tonight; now, her mood was ruined. As she turned to look at Éomer, she found him suddenly less appealing. Why did he insist on protecting his sister, when he _knew_ that she was a whore? She had heard their conversation when Gúthwyn had put Elfwine to bed—she had specifically said: _Any man I take as a spouse will know I have not been faithful to him. I am no maiden._ It was clearly not the first time Éomer had heard such information. There had been no gasp of surprise, no eyes widened in shock.

To make matters even worse, he had consulted with Gúthwyn about whether or not Prince Legolas was to visit. Lothíriel had heard no news of the Elf beforehand; Éomer had not informed her that he had received a letter, nor that he was contemplating inviting his friend to stay at their home. He had not thought to ask her whether or not she wanted such a guest. Lothíriel did not mind Legolas, of course, and she had no qualms about him coming to Rohan, but it pained her more than anything else that Éomer had sought out his sister's approval, rather than hers.

_She even manages to inflict her presence on me when she is nowhere in sight!_ Lothíriel thought, and sat up. She barely managed to restrain herself from cursing the other woman.

Her mood close to foul, she decided to get a drink of water. Though she was not entirely thirsty, it was certainly a task to keep her mind off of her troubles. Getting off of the bed, Lothíriel tiptoed over to Elfwine's cradle, wanting to check on him before she left. A broad smile tugged at her mouth when she saw that he was sucking his thumb. _There is no one more adorable in all of Middle-earth,_ she thought, tempted to take him out of his crib and hold him tightly.

Yet the picture of him sleeping was not something she wished to disturb, and with a soft sigh she leaned over to gently kiss his smooth forehead. Then she straightened and edged out of the room, careful not to wake Éomer. Her feet made no sound on the floor as she walked down the hall. But as she came into the throne room, still within the darkness of the corridor, she heard something.

Drawing back into the shadows, Lothíriel listened intently. There were two voices, one talking swiftly and the other so low that she could barely hear it. Nevertheless, she recognized them both: Gúthwyn and Cobryn. Her sharp intake of breath was not detected by either of them.

_What are they doing?_ Puzzled, Lothíriel came nearer to where she knew Cobryn's pallet lay. Half-hidden behind a pillar, she could see their shapes now, so near each other that there was almost no separation between them. The queen's eyesight was sharp; she could make out Gúthwyn's hand holding his, and how their faces were merely inches apart. She was unable to hear what they were saying, but suddenly it did not matter.

A cold chill ran through her body. Clearly Nethiel was right: They were too friendly to not be lovers. For how could this possibly be mere companionship? At any moment Lothíriel expected them to kiss, so close were their lips. Yet it could not happen. She could not risk them continuing this affair—for how could it be anything else?—or… marriage.

Now Cobryn stood, holding his hand out to Gúthwyn. Lothíriel's brow knitted as she watched the woman. She had wrapped her arms around herself, almost as if she were afraid of something. But eventually she conceded and took his hand, letting him lift her up effortlessly. Again, Lothíriel was reminded of just how much thinner her husband's sister was than herself.

Then her mouth dropped open in shock, for Cobryn had wrapped his arm around Gúthwyn—their hands were still intertwined—and was walking with her _to her chambers. _Lothíriel stood there for nearly a full minute, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. Not even Gúthwyn would she have suspected of taking a man to her bed so brazenly, so openly. She would have thought her to at least have had the intelligence to meet him outside, perhaps behind the stables.

Cobryn and Gúthwyn disappeared into the passage that led to the latter's room, and Lothíriel waited for almost half an hour to ensure that he was not, in fact, simply escorting her back to her chambers. Yet Cobryn did not reemerge, and she was forced to accept the reality of what she had suspected. Right now, the advisor was making love to the king's sister—and they were not even considering marriage with each other.

Nethiel's words echoed in Lothíriel's mind. _My lady, the scandal it would bring—the king's own sister, shown to be a harlot!_

_Scandal, indeed,_ Lothíriel mused, a gleam briefly flickering in her eyes. It seemed that her political rival was not as careful as she had thought him to be. It had irritated her to no end that he was almost as high in the favor of Éomer as Gúthwyn; yet now, she had found the means with which to change that. If Éomer discovered that Cobryn was sleeping with his sister, it would not be long before there was one less advisor on the king's council.

She paused, and debated: Should she go to Éomer now, so that when he stormed into Gúthwyn's chambers he would catch them in the act? Or should she wait until the morning, when it would be almost impossible for Cobryn to say that he had not made love to her? He was cunning, but not even he would be able to work his way around that fact. Éomer would believe Lothíriel, not a slave.

_Do I want to get rid of him?_ she questioned herself. A part of her enjoyed sparring with him, their words and wits their weapons. However, as much as she liked their arguments, she reminded herself that he was loyal to Gúthwyn, and that he had hated her ever since she opined about barbarous, simple-minded slaves. Nor did she doubt that he knew she had had her hand behind the sheet incident. Gúthwyn may not have realized what had happened—Lothíriel nearly laughed, remembering how confused the woman had been—but for weeks afterwards a muscle in Cobryn's jaw had twitched whenever he looked at her. Even she could hardly believe that her ploy had worked so effortlessly; surely one of the women would have doubted that innocent little Gúthwyn could have done such a thing, or at least have been so careless. Yet none of them had… and that intrigued her.

Yes, she would go to Éomer and tell him all that she had seen. Cobryn would be exiled from Rohan, if the king believed such a crime to be offensive enough. From there, it was only a matter of time before she would have her way with Gúthwyn. The tables would be turned, and the woman who had humiliated Lothíriel would now find her reputation ruined and her relations with her brother strained. Then she would know how Lothíriel felt, what it was like to always be second-best in Éomer's eyes.

That was, assuming Gúthwyn did not become pregnant. If the woman discovered that she was with child, she would be forced to marry Cobryn. Lothíriel immediately dismissed the notion: Any baby in Gúthwyn's womb would likely miscarry—either that, or one or both of them would die in childbirth. She could tell by looking at her husband's sister that she was not suited for breeding. Her hips were dangerously narrow, and she barely ate enough to feed one person. It was more probable that she would not conceive at all.

This relieved Lothíriel, for an alliance between Éomer's sister and her archrival was something she was determined to avoid at all costs. Through such a union, Cobryn would gain even more power than he already had. Éomer would be twice as eager to seek out his opinion, and the slave would have a hefty influence on the politics of Rohan. Nor would Gúthwyn have to leave the Golden Hall: Because Cobryn had no home of his own, he would simply share Gúthwyn's chambers. And since Lothíriel had wanted Gúthwyn to be married to a man in a far-off realm as soon as she realized how much Éomer preferred her company, such a position was most disadvantageous.

But she would not rouse her husband from his sleep. As she turned to go back to her chambers, her drink long forgotten, she decided to wait until the morning. Then Cobryn would not possibly be able to convince Éomer that he had not slept with his sister. Once Cobryn was gone, Lothíriel would then let it slip to her maid what she had seen. With a tongue such as Nethiel's, the story would be all over Edoras in hours. She would let the people decide how they felt about their perfect Gúthwyn then.

The bitter wife returned to her bed, and dozed fitfully until the morning arrived. There was no sun that day; she could hear the soft pattering of rain upon the golden roof. Éomer awoke early, and such a smile was on his face when he beheld her that she felt almost guilty for bringing him such news.

"Good morning, Lothíriel," he murmured, kissing her lips gently. In spite of herself she blushed, recalling the events of last night.

"Good morning," she replied, and then sat up as he rolled out of bed and started dressing.

"Did you sleep well?" Éomer inquired, slipping his leggings on.

The perfect opening. Lothíriel shrugged. "Éomer…" she began, making her voice sound as reluctant as possible. "There is something I think I need to tell you."

"What is that?" he asked, pulling his tunic over his head. He started stepping into his boots as she pretended to hem and haw over the issue.

"Well," she said at last, swallowing for effect, "I decided to get a drink of water last night."

"And?"

She sighed. "Éomer, I saw Cobryn and Gúthwyn together."

Her tone made the innocent action seem suggestive, which was the effect she had desired. Éomer's brotherly instincts kicked in, and all the happiness in his expression vanished within seconds. Suspicion formed a thick cloud around him, and his hand drifted to the left side of his waist—as if searching for his sword. His eyes narrowed dangerously. "What do you mean, you saw them together?"

Lothíriel looked down at the blanket. "She was holding his hand," she informed her husband, "and they were…"

"What is it?" he demanded when she faltered, stepping closer to the bed. "What were they doing?"

"I did not see anything," she admitted, "though their faces were only inches away from each other's."

Éomer's face, which had begun to relax once she had denied witnessing any inappropriate conduct, tightened again. She decided to go for the kill.

"But then…" Lothíriel stopped once more. "I do not know if I should say—I would not want to—"

"Say what?" Éomer questioned, the look in his eyes warning her not to keep him in suspense.

"Éomer, I am sorry," she said, and briefly put her hand over her mouth. "I would never have suspected it of Cobryn—I should have told you sooner, but I did not want to wake you up—"

"Lothíriel!" Éomer barked, a fire in his gaze that made her shiver. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"He went with her into her chambers," Lothíriel whispered, "and he never came back."

For several seconds Éomer froze, his cheeks pale and his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Then he managed, his face growing redder by the syllable, "That whoreson!"

Such was his rage that he did not apologize to Lothíriel for his language. "How dare he?" Éomer snarled, his fury terrifying even her. "How dare he take advantage—my baby sister—after all I have done for him—where is he now?"

"I-I do not know," Lothíriel stuttered, not having to fake her fright.

Without another word Éomer spun around on his heel and yanked the door open. He slammed it behind him so loudly that Elfwine woke up and started crying.

"Hush, child, be still," Lothíriel said, going over to her son's cradle.

Yet even Elfwine's screeching could not cover the yell of _"Cobryn!"_ that echoed throughout the entire Golden Hall.

* * *

"COBRYN!" 

Starting, Cobryn glanced up from his pallet to see the king of Rohan storming into the throne room, his face crimson with rage. Before he had time to respond, Éomer caught sight of him.

"On your feet!" he shouted, causing Cobryn's ears to start ringing.

Utterly bewildered as to what he had done, wondering if perhaps he had made a grievous mistake on one of the charts he had compiled for the king, Cobryn obeyed. "My lord?" he asked, confused.

Éomer bore down on him with the speed of a _mearh_. Cobryn could not even blink before he found himself being flung against the pillar, Éomer's fist around his throat the only thing keeping him from falling. Choking, Cobryn tried to loosen the king's grip, but it was useless.

"What were you thinking?" Éomer growled, his voice filled with inexplicable hatred.

Cobryn could only splutter, at a complete and total loss as to what he had done and unable to speak in his defense.

Seeing the dumbfounded look on his advisor's face, Éomer spat, "Where were you last night?"

Cobryn blinked. _What kind of a question is…_ That was when he remembered. Almost painfully fast, the pieces of the puzzle flew together. Gúthwyn had woken him up in the middle of the night, panicking and convinced that someone was in her room. He had gone with her to examine her chambers; although nothing had turned up, she had asked him to stay with her until she had fallen asleep. Somehow, Éomer must have heard of him accompanying her to her room and misinterpreted it.

But how would he have learned of it so fast?

"Do you have anything to say?" Éomer demanded, tightening his grip on Cobryn's neck.

Frantically, incapable of breathing, Cobryn gestured towards his throat several times. Finally, after what felt like years, Éomer loosened his hold somewhat, and lowered him to the ground.

Resisting the urge to massage his neck, Cobryn gasped, "I-Is this about G-Gúthwyn?"

He was pulled from the pillar and slammed back into it again. "You do not deny taking advantage of her, then?"

Éomer's face was almost purple. Cobryn was exceedingly glad that in this early hour no one else was in the hall—he could only imagine what their expressions would have been.

"M-My lord," he stammered, worried that Éomer would lose control and kill him before he had a chance to explain. He could scarcely hear himself speak, so winded was he. "She… she had a n-nightmare…"

"She what?" Éomer asked, narrowing his eyes. His grasp on Cobryn did not ease up in the slightest.

Suddenly Cobryn thought of something. "Was it you?" he questioned, panting heavily. "Did you blow out the candles?"

The king stiffened. "In Gúthwyn's room?" he asked guardedly.

"Aye," Cobryn nodded, taking deep breaths. "She… she came to me after midnight and said that all of the candles were gone…"

Éomer let go of him. This time, Cobryn really did massage his throat. He would not have been surprised if there were bruises already forming.

"What happened last night?" Éomer asked, his voice deadly quiet.

Still trying to understand exactly how Éomer had been informed as far as he had, Cobryn began telling all that he knew. "As I said, she woke me up—she had had a nightmare."

A chill swept through him. His friend had been raving, her eyes wild and her body trembling in horror. It had only confirmed what he had been suspecting for months…

"She still gets nightmares?" Éomer questioned, puzzled.

Cobryn stared at him. "Did she not tell you?"

Éomer shook his head. "No… how frequently does she get them?"

Hesitating, Cobryn answered, "She claims only once or twice a month, but I think it is far more often than that."

"Why did she not say anything?" Éomer inquired, aghast. "If I had known, I would have stayed up with her—"

Therein lay the reason. "With all due respect, my lord," Cobryn said delicately, "you have a wife now, and I believe she feels that she cannot approach you anymore."

Éomer's shoulders slumped. "She is right," he murmured, sighing heavily. "Lothíriel would wonder where I was going…" Then he straightened, and glowered at Cobryn. "That does not explain why you were in her chambers until the early hours of the morning. What were you doing?"

At the mention of Lothíriel, Cobryn's mind nagged at him, but he knew he had to answer the king's question. "She did not want to go back to her room, of course," he started, exhaling. "She thought that someone was inside, because she had heard noises."

Upon seeing Éomer's mystified expression, he explained, "It turned out to be her book falling off the nightstand. But I offered to go with her, because she refused to return otherwise. Then she asked if I would stay with her until she fell asleep."

He did not add that he had remained in the room for hours afterwards, reluctant to leave her. For he had realized in his vigil something that had startled him at first, and required a heavy amount of reflection: He loved Gúthwyn. It was not the way he had given his heart to Feride; he simply loved her as he would a sister, and nothing more. He had realized that he would not have done all he had for her if there was anything less between them. Unfortunately for him, he knew that Éomer would ever see it that way.

The king of Rohan studied him for a long time. "And you swear you did nothing else?" he at length asked.

"I swear," Cobryn vowed, his voice completely honest.

Éomer reddened. "I suppose I… ah, owe you an apology," he said gruffly, and glanced at the other man's throat. "You might want to put ice on that…"

Gingerly, Cobryn touched the sore skin, and winced. "I think I will," he muttered. "At least I now know that Gúthwyn is in no danger as long as you are protecting her."

"I am sorry," Éomer responded, looking as if he truly meant it. "I thought that you had…" he trailed off, but he did not need to complete the sentence.

"How did you know?" Cobryn asked then, a sneaking suspicion in his mind.

"Lothíriel told me," Éomer replied. "She saw the two of you, ah… going into Gúthwyn's chambers and got the wrong impression."

That Cobryn could believe. Nor was he surprised that she had informed Éomer. Yet why would Éomer delay in seeking him out, if Lothíriel had seen them last night?

"Why did you wait?" he asked, figuring it was best to go to the source.

Éomer frowned. "Why did I wait?"

"If Lothíriel happened to see us at midnight, why did you not come into Gúthwyn's chambers immediately after learning of it?" Cobryn elucidated, careful to inject as little accusation as possible into his sentence.

"She spoke to me this morning," Éomer answered, now frowning somewhat. "She said she did not wish to wake me up."

_Of course,_ Cobryn thought to himself, barely suppressing a sardonic grin. _Lothíriel wanted there to be no doubt that I had slept with Gúthwyn._

The queen was certainly cunning in that regard. As much as he disliked her, he had to admire the intelligence with which she set about destroying her enemies. If he had, in fact, been making love to Gúthwyn—he ignored the minor revulsion that swept through his stomach at the idea—and she did not emerge from that union with a child, Éomer would have probably exiled him or thrown him into jail. If it turned out that she was pregnant, they would have been forced to marry… And he knew neither of them wanted that.

_Nor does Lothíriel,_ he thought, restraining the urge to smirk.

"Well, ah…" Éomer said then, shifting on his feet.

"Éomer, there was something I wanted to talk to you about," Cobryn spoke then, remembering what he had wanted to inform the king of. "It is about Gúthwyn."

"What about her?" Éomer asked, his guard instantly up.

Cobryn sighed, his mood now somber. "Éomer, you should have seen her last night," he murmured, shuddering at the memory. "Has she ever approached you after a nightmare?"

Éomer's shoulders tensed. "Yes," he replied. His voice lowered. "It is horrible."

"With all due respect, my lord," Cobryn said quietly, "I do not think her mind is what it once was."

"Why are you saying that?" Éomer asked, only his eyes betraying how his advisor's words had affected him. "She is fine—yes, she is too thin, and she gets nightmares—but… my sister, she…" He could not continue the sentence. His gaze was that of a helpless man, one who has to stand aside and watch everything that they have worked for be brought to naught.

Cobryn tried not to think of how closely that observation mirrored his own life. "Things make her panic," he said, "that should not be doing so. Have you ever noticed how certain words make her freeze? To passerby she may appear normal… but have you ever looked into her eyes when she becomes as still as death?"

Éomer winced. "Do not speak of her and dying," he said. "If she were to perish before me I do not know what I would do."

"Éomer, she is not like you and I," Cobryn responded.

The king sighed. "I know," he said, his voice heavy with defeat. "I know."

It seemed to Cobryn that the temperature dropped several degrees, and remained that way for the rest of the morning.

* * *

When Gúthwyn awoke in the afternoon, Cobryn was no longer at her side. She did not wonder at this, for she had not expected him to stay with her—and she would have felt guilty if he had. Yet most of the candles were still lit, which made her relieved to know that she had not slept in the dark after he had left. 

She cringed now to think of how weak she had been. Cobryn had told her that it was not her fault, and that he got nightmares as well… but why was she the one incapable of forming a coherent sentence when she awoke from them, the one who had run over to his pallet and refused to return to her chambers until he accompanied her back? She had even thought that someone was in her room…

A tongue of fear lapped at her mind. Gúthwyn firmly brushed it away, not wanting to give into that which she had so easily last night. _Get dressed,_ she told herself. _Get dressed, go outside, and have something to eat._

With that in mind, she climbed out of bed, and blew out a few of the candles that had the potential to be knocked over without much difficulty. Now that light was streaming in through the small, high window in her room, she had less cause for fear and more cause for embarrassment.

Sighing, she changed out of her nightgown and into one of her grey dresses. A few strokes of the hairbrush later, she slipped her feet in a pair of boots and left the room, closing the door as she entered the corridor. When she came out into the great hall, she barely had time to survey the tables and decide where she would be sitting before she saw Éomer coming towards her.

"Good afternoon," she bade him with a smile, hoping that the circles beneath her eyes were not so conspicuous.

"Good afternoon," he replied, and lowered his voice. "Sister, may I speak with you for a moment?"

"I see no reason why not," Gúthwyn agreed, rather bewildered as to what he evidently did not wish to say in front of the dining advisors.

Éomer led her behind the cover of a large pillar, surprising her with his secrecy until he asked, "Why was Cobryn in your chambers last night?"

Gúthwyn blinked, not having expected that question. At the same time, a rush of humiliation swept over her. "I-I had a nightmare," she muttered, looking down at the floor. "And when I woke up, my room was dark."

Éomer opened his mouth, seemed to think better of what he was going to say, and closed it.

"So I went to find him," she continued, grateful that he had not interrupted, "and I asked him if he would return with me. I was… I was frightened. Then I wanted him to stay with me until I fell asleep."

"Ah," Éomer said. "That is what he told me, as well."

For a moment, Gúthwyn stared at him in confusion. Then her eyes widened. "You thought he was lying to you?"

Éomer had the good grace to at least look somewhat abashed. "I had him by the throat," he admitted, "because I… I, ah, misinterpreted the fact that he had gone into your chambers. I would not think it too difficult for someone to utter any falsity in order to get out of that position."

"You had him by the throat?" Gúthwyn echoed in disbelief, feeling awful for Cobryn. If only she had managed to overcome her fears, none of this would have happened. "Brother, is he breathing yet?"

"Of course he is," Éomer said, though his face flushed a little.

"Éomer, you should not have been so suspicious of him!" Gúthwyn admonished her brother, half-afraid that Cobryn was still inebriated. "And how did you learn that he had gone into my room?"

"Lothíriel told me this morning," Éomer explained. "Apparently she saw the two of you leaving the hall. When Cobryn did not return, she assumed that you were, well…" He trailed off, clearly not wanting to upset her with what they both knew followed. Nevertheless, Gúthwyn's face turned a bright red, and she felt the familiar sensation of nausea gripping her abdomen.

"I am sorry, Gúthwyn," Éomer said with a sigh. "I should have realized that you would never do such a thing… I was not using my head."

"I-It is all right," Gúthwyn said, her blush creeping to the roots of her hair.

"I was the one who blew out the candles," he confessed.

She froze. "You what?" she asked, unable to believe what she had just heard. He knew she was terrified of the dark…

"Sister, why do you sleep with so many?" Éomer questioned, his gaze fixed on hers. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? What if one of them toppled over and caused a fire?"

"Cobryn usually blows some of them out," Gúthwyn answered, stung that her own brother had caused her so much fear. "Why did you do all of them?"

"I did not know that you still used them," Éomer said concernedly. "I extinguished them because I thought you would not wake up until noon, when the sun would be high above us."

She could not blame him for that, and said nothing.

"Gúthwyn, I am so sorry," Éomer murmured. "I did not think that the action would have such consequences."

"Do not mention it," she replied with a shrug, now relieved to know that there had not, in fact, been an intruder within her room.

Éomer studied her for awhile, as if determining whether or not she was being truthful, and then sighed. "Will you be joining us for lunch?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn said, mentally shaking her head to rid it of the cobwebs from her nightmare. "I just need to find Cobryn."

He nodded. "Tell him that there is more ice, if he desires it."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened. "Éomer…"

"I thought you were in danger," her brother said.

She met his gaze briefly, and then left to search for Cobryn. Plumes of nervousness rose within her as she imagined how injured he was. _He is already crippled,_ she thought anxiously. _Éomer should have known better!_

When she at last located her friend, however, sitting at one of the corner tables, he had placed a pack of ice on his throat, and she was unable to observe how much damage had been done.

He caught sight of her only a few seconds after she noticed him, and with a wave greeted her. "Good afternoon."

"Let me see that," was Gúthwyn's response as she strode towards him.

Cobryn appeared reluctant to obey, but when she glared at him he removed the ice. Gúthwyn could not restrain a gasp: His throat displayed what looked to be every single shade of black, blue, and purple. The imprint of Éomer's hand was still on it; she could see where each of her brother's fingers had gripped her friend's neck.

"I am so sorry," she breathed, sitting down swiftly beside him. "Éomer told me… I did not think it was this bad… Does it still hurt?"

He shook his head, but she did not believe him. When she gently touched the bruised skin, he winced terrifically, and quickly put the ice back on.

"Cobryn, I am so—"

"It was not your fault," he cut her off. "Éomer was simply trying to protect you."

"There must be some herbs I can find," Gúthwyn rushed on, running through a list of all such practitioners in Edoras. "Surely someone can make a paste—"

"Do not worry," Cobryn said firmly. "The ice is all I need."

Gúthwyn did not suggest any help afterwards, knowing well that his streak of pride had reared its head, but days later she still felt a lingering guilt whenever she looked at him. Though eventually it healed, he attracted the blatant stares of nearly everyone with whom he crossed paths. While he bore it in good humor, occasionally saying that he had gotten into a brawl with Aldor in a debate, she could only imagine how difficult such scrutiny had been to endure.

Lothíriel had laughed along with everyone else when Cobryn joked that Aldor had pinned him to the floor in the council room, but Gúthwyn noticed that her eyes became narrowed whenever she looked at the advisor. Nor had her manner around Gúthwyn changed—if anything, it was worse. Éomund's daughter did not understand this, but she had a feeling that it had something to do with the night of her terrible dream. Yet she could not begin to guess how Lothíriel fit into those events; though the queen had been the one to inform her brother, Gúthwyn could find no other reason.

A storm was gathering around Meduseld, though the summer was more glorious than its predecessors and the sunlight lingered long into the evening.

* * *

**A/N:** Just to let everyone know, I am going to be on vacation until August 31st. I will only be able to check my e-mail, so I won't be making any updates until I return. I am bringing a notebook on the trip (I have four six-hour flights, so that's a whole day's worth of nothing to do); hopefully I'll be able to do lots of writing then.

Behave yourselves while I'm gone! ;-)


	50. Rumors

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifty:  
**Just to let everyone know: I have no idea how to take care of a baby, given that I've never had one before. Most of the information I got off of the Internet, so if there is anything grossly wrong with my portrayal of Elfwine's upbringing, please let me know! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fifty**

On the day that Legolas and his escort of Elves were due to arrive, Gúthwyn used whatever means possible to keep herself from thinking of the prince. Though she truly wanted to be excited about his visit, since she did count him as a friend and had not seen him in years, it was inevitable that when her thoughts turned to him that they would soon focus on Haldor.

Not helping the matter was the fact that she had somehow woken up at the crack of dawn, which maximized the number of hours that she had to spend occupying herself with something that would not give her much room for any kind of musings. At first, she had gone to the training grounds, hoping to find some comfort in the sound of Framwine swinging through the air. But the appearance of Gamling had made the situation awkward, and shortly afterwards she had departed.

For the captain of the guard had recently asked for her hand in marriage, shocking her. She had sensed that something in his manner towards her had changed, but he was so reserved in his behavior around her that she had scarcely been able to comprehend his proposal when first he made it. Unlike the others except for Tun, he had approached her rather than Éomer. She had become so flustered that she could hardly get the refusal out; when she did, such guilt had overwhelmed her that it was several minutes before she had collected herself sufficiently.

Nor had he been the only one. Two other soldiers whom she was acquainted with had gone to Éomer in hopes of becoming her husband. At this point, she had nearly lost track of how many marriage offers she had received—it pained her, for such a statement sounded as if she was conceited, but the fact remained that once her brother had announced her eligibility a great deal of her friends had decided to try their luck.

Luckily, most of them had taken her rejections quite well. Even Tun had mustered the courage to ask her to be his sparring partner the other day. Though their match had been short, and they had both been restrained in their conversation and laughter to the point that it was more uncomfortable than trying to avoid each other, Gúthwyn hoped that this was the first step to repairing their friendship.

There was one good thing about this: Now that most of the suitable men in Rohan had failed to win her over, there were far less prospects in the field of marriage for her. Gúthwyn secretly prayed that eventually Éomer would decide it was too much trouble to find her a husband and give up—after all, if she had refused so many, who was to say if there were any who might please her?

"And there certainly are not," she muttered to Elfwine as she walked with him down the street. "It is better that your father learns that sooner than later."

Elfwine did not understand a word she was saying, and instead cooed happily as he tugged on her hair. At this point, it was so long that she could almost blanket him in it; she had to remind herself to have it trimmed in the near future. Mildwen and Elflede would certainly object to such an action, but it was getting in the way of her training, and that was of far more importance than her appearance.

As Gúthwyn strolled down the main road, careful to keep Elfwine secure in her arms, she could not help but notice that she was receiving a lot of strange looks. At first, she assumed it was because people expected Lothíriel to be with her son, but gradually she came to realize that hardly any of them were focused on the king's heir. It was mostly the women; the men were friendly as usual, many calling out greetings to her as she passed. She returned them all, yet the stares from the women disturbed her.

Surreptitiously, she made her way to the well, and glanced down into the water to examine her reflection. No, there was nothing amiss about her looks: Her hair had been brushed, even if it was being blown about a bit by the wind; she had nothing between her teeth, having only eaten a little bread and some stew for lunch; nor was her gown missing a button or whatnot. But still the women continued to whisper when she walked by, the younger ones giggling shrilly.

Confused, and recalling uneasily that she had observed this behavior for a few days now, Gúthwyn decided to seek out an answer to this riddle. The first person she saw that could be of service to her in this regard was Elfhelm. The Marshal was on a visit from Aldburg, having just organized a successful harvest in that region. All of Rohan was now in the process of reaping their crops, preparing to store most of them for the winter and ship the others out to places such as Dol Amroth, Minas Tirith, and Ithilien. The harvest feast would be held on the same night as Legolas' departure—a fact that she had noted with relief, as it would be a good excuse to spend most of the evening dancing, and therefore not having to duel with memories of Haldor.

Now she approached Elfhelm, glad that they had maintained good terms with each other. He was watching Heahtor run around with a wooden sword, occasionally giving out pointers as the young boy fought valiantly against a haystack.

"My lord," Gúthwyn said, nodding at him.

"My lady Gúthwyn," he replied, smiling. "How are you and the prince today?"

"Good, thank you," Éomund's daughter answered. Elfwine yawned.

"Mind your footwork!" Elfhelm called out then, his attention momentarily shifting back to his nephew.

"May I ask you something?" Gúthwyn inquired in a low voice as Heahtor adjusted his movements accordingly.

"Of course," Elfhelm said.

She took a deep breath. "I noticed that some of… ah, some of the women have been looking at me oddly. Do you know what the reason might be for this? Has your sister spoken of something about me that offended them?"

For a long time, Elfhelm watched Heahtor, though his eyes were still, and he made no corrections to the boy's technique. At length he sighed, and glanced at her. "It is nothing important," he muttered. "I would not want to spread…"

"Elfhelm, please," Gúthwyn responded. "Clearly, it must be something worth telling me."

He sighed. "There has been a… rumor circulating the town of late."

Gúthwyn knitted her brow. "What rumor?"

Here Elfhelm looked truly awkward, shifting back and forth on his feet and keeping his gaze on the ground. When at last he met her eyes, they were filled with regret. "They are saying that you and Cobryn… that you and he are having an affair, and were caught sleeping with each other not a month ago."

"An _affair?_" Gúthwyn repeated incredulously, her eyes widening. "That is ridiculous! I never—that is—"

But she could not finish the sentence: her mind had just processed the last part of Elfhelm's remark. For a terrifying instant, she felt faint. Her face grew pale, and her breathing rapid. She was unable to keep herself from remembering the time she had voluntarily made love to Haldor—an act that seemed more sinful to her than if she had taken a hundred men to her bed in addition to Cobryn.

"Gúthwyn?" Elfhelm's voice drifted into her tormented thoughts. "Are you—steady!"

For she had just swayed violently, and only his hands catching her by the arm had prevented her from falling. Luckily, Elfwine was not harmed—he fussed a little, but gradually settled back into his half-sleep.

"I-I am sorry," she said, for some reason feeling out of breath. "I do not… I am sorry, I lost myself for a moment."

"Would you like to sit down?" he asked concernedly, gesturing towards a bench that stood outside Brytta's home.

"N-No, I am fine," Gúthwyn replied, shaking her head. "How… how did you hear of this?"

"Brytta told me," Elfhelm informed her. "She said she had heard it at one of the washing circles. Apparently one of the maids from your household had heard it from a reliable source; most of the women believed her, though my sister did not."

_One of the maids…_ Then Gúthwyn's frown deepened. She knew exactly whom Elfhelm was referring to. "Well, it is certainly not true," she said angrily, stung that her own people would believe such a thing of her from a loose-tongued person like Nethiel. Elfwine stirred uneasily in her arms, alarmed at her tone. She rocked him gently as she said, "He is my best friend, not my lover."

"I did not think there was much truth in the tale, either," Elfhelm assured her. "Nor did most of the other soldiers—though that was mainly because of the other gossip that was spoken…"

"What gossip?" Gúthwyn demanded when he trailed off, realizing what he had just said. "What are they saying?"

"You will not like this," Elfhelm warned her.

She met his eyes defiantly. "I would rather hear it than be kept in the dark."

"Apparently, many of the younger women are spreading rumors of your conduct with the other men," Elfhelm said quietly. "They are jealous, I think, because you talk to them far more easily than they. But such envy has led them to declare that the soldiers' admiration for you is due to…" Again, he did not finish his sentence.

"Elfhelm," Gúthwyn said sternly, "I will find out, one way or the other." She already had decided to speak with Hildeth, once Éomer and Lothíriel's meeting was over and they were able to watch Elfwine.

"Gúthwyn, they are saying that you are servicing the men as a whore," Elfhelm at last told her.

A long silence followed his words. "I… I need to sit down," she eventually whispered, and unsteadily went over to the bench and lowered herself onto it. Her hold on Elfwine tightened, if only because she needed something to keep her steady.

Elfhelm sat down beside her, his eye still on Heahtor. "No word of this has reached your brother," he said. "They are all conscious of that—none of them wish to risk his wrath. Nor have any of the men been inclined to tell him."

"H-How could they believe what they are hearing?" Gúthwyn asked in horror, referring to the women. "What have I ever done to them?"

"Most of them were too little to know you before you left," Elfhelm replied, making her jaw clench. "When you returned, and fit in so well with the men, my guess is that they saw you as a rival of sorts. The fact that most of their brothers or fathers would leap down their throats if they so much as utter a bad word about you in their presence likely does not help matters."

Elfwine chose that moment to tug particularly forcefully at Gúthwyn's hair, and she could not help but wince.

"Are you all right?" Elfhelm inquired, only partially referring to the king's heir.

"Yes," Gúthwyn automatically said. Yet the pounding of her heart told her otherwise; the memories swirling through her said nay; and the title of "whore" was not so easy to dismiss. It was not a foreign word to her—how many times had she labeled herself with it? How many times had Haldor hissed it to her in the dark? How many times had Burzum, Lumren, and other soldiers angry with her used it?

But she found that it hurt more to hear it from her own people than it did from Haldor.

"The rumor will pass soon," Elfhelm said confidently. "Once Prince Legolas arrives, Éomer will give him a welcoming feast, and the girls will be more busy worrying about what to wear than your behavior."

There was only some comfort to be had in this, if Legolas was to be her rescuer. Gúthwyn sighed, the noise carrying down to Elfwine and causing him to lift his head slightly. "Thank you for telling me, my lord," she said wearily, getting to her feet. "I appreciate it."

"Say nothing of it," Elfhelm responded, standing as well. "I wish it were only a better tale."

Gúthwyn smiled sadly. "It could have been worse."

"Aye," Elfhelm agreed darkly. "It could have."

On that note, the Marshal of the East-mark and the sister of the king parted. Gúthwyn walked down the street a little in a vain attempt to find Hildeth; however, for the first time in her memory the elderly woman was not washing. This posed a problem, as she soon realized that she did not, in fact, know where Hildeth lived. On further self-examination, she discovered that she was not even aware of whether or not her friend had a husband.

Guilt washed over her. _How could I not have bothered to ask after all these years?_ she wondered.

There was nothing to do, though, but to admit defeat and return to the Golden Hall. She decided to speak with Cobryn: he, at least, had a habit of turning up when she needed him. _I do not know where I would be without him,_ she mused, not liking to contemplate the idea.

Her walk up the street was brief, and almost before she knew it the guards were holding the doors open for her. She thanked them both and stepped inside, taking a few seconds to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. A smile came to her face when the first person she saw was Cobryn. He, Éomer, and Lothíriel were sitting at a table together, going over what looked to be a series of overly complicated charts.

"Good afternoon, sister," Éomer bade her as she approached. "How is my son?"

"Wonderful," Gúthwyn answered, looking down at Elfwine. He was attempting to put her hair in his mouth.

"Elfwine, leave your aunt alone!" Lothíriel scolded him half-heartedly, but Gúthwyn shook her head.

"I do not mind," she said. "What are those?"

Éomer glanced down at the papers. "Expenses of the realm," he muttered. "It seems the list is growing longer each week."

Gúthwyn rolled her eyes. "It is such a nice day out! Why waste it cooped up inside and poring over numbers?"

"Some of us have work to do," Lothíriel said, and though her tone was polite, Gúthwyn knew that she had just been accused of sloth and idleness. _I have been watching your own son,_ Éomund's daughter thought irritably. _Is that not a good enough task for you?_

However, Éomer did not notice the tensions between his wife and his sister—though Cobryn certainly did, and narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly—and laughed, "I hope that for your sake you never have to rule a kingdom. You would not be able to go to the training grounds nearly as much."

"It is evident that you are affected by that problem," Gúthwyn smirked. "Your performance with a sword has been woefully inadequate of late."

"Thank you, little sister." Éomer glared at her. "But I find that I still manage to be your superior in horseracing."

Gúthwyn visibly brushed the comment aside, and was about to continue the banter when Lothíriel interrupted them. "It is getting late," she reminded her husband. "If we wish to have time to prepare for Legolas' arrival, then we must finish going over these." Then she looked at Gúthwyn. "Will you find Bregwyn and give Elfwine to her? It is time for his feeding."

Clearly, the queen did not want her present at the discussions. In most cases, Gúthwyn would have been annoyed at this, but in reality there were two things keeping her temper in check: She hated the politics of managing a realm, and her time was much better occupied seeing to her nephew's well-being. So she smiled and bid farewell to the three of them, departing with Elfwine happily sucking on her hair.

* * *

Gúthwyn ended up remaining with Bregwyn while the woman fed Elfwine, for—unlike Nethiel—she held no grudge against her and was a most amiable companion. From the nurse she also received confirmation of the rumors that had been circulating, though she remained resolutely mum when questioned about their origins. In any case, Gúthwyn did not doubt that they came from Nethiel, and decided to do no further investigating until she had spoken to Cobryn.

The rest of the afternoon passed swiftly by, until Gúthwyn knew it was time for her to make herself presentable for Legolas' arrival. With Elfwine still in her arms, she hastened up the stairs into Meduseld and entered the throne room.

"Hello, sister," Éomer greeted her, smiling. "Thank you for watching over Elfwine."

"It was my pleasure," Gúthwyn replied truthfully.

He studied her for a moment, and then lowered his voice. "I know you have been taking care of him frequently this month. Would you like me to pay you for your services?"

"No!" Gúthwyn said almost immediately. "Absolutely not."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I would not want you to be watching him all day for nothing—"

"I am sure," Gúthwyn replied firmly. "Besides, I enjoy spending time with him. He is an adorable nephew. In any case, now I am going to return him to Lothíriel, for I can imagine that she is wanting to get him ready herself."

"As you wish," Éomer said, nodding. He leaned over and kissed Elfwine on the brow. "Thank you again."

"You are most welcome," Gúthwyn responded happily.

With that, she turned and made her way to through the hall, and walked down the passage until she reached Lothíriel's chambers. From several yards away she heard the shrill jabbering and laughter of what seemed like every single maid employed at Meduseld. The queen never lacked attendants when she desired them; indeed, all of the women clamored to help her prepare, as her wardrobe was unequaled and her hair was as soft as silk.

Although the door was slightly open, Gúthwyn shifted her hold on Elfwine and rapped on the wooden frame three times. Almost immediately, there was a sharp dip in the noise level. Lothíriel's voice called, "Come in."

Feeling an odd sense of trepidation, Gúthwyn stepped inside, and was met with a sharp outburst of giggling. Many of the younger maids cast sly glances at her, then turned to whisper loudly in their neighbor's ear. She heard Cobryn's name muttered several times. Her face burned with humiliation, but she determinedly held her head high and reminded herself of what she had come to do.

In the midst of all this, Lothíriel stood in front of her mirror, being fitted into a corset by several servants. Gúthwyn could not help but wince at the sight of them pulling back the laces as tightly as possible. It was no small mystery to her how the queen tolerated such discomfort.

"Ah," Lothíriel remarked, turning her head to see what had caused the distraction of her maids. "Gúthwyn."

The way she said Éomund's daughter's name made it sound as if she were talking about something unpleasant on the bottom of her shoe. Many of the girls laughed at this, not bothering to hide their disrespect. The only exceptions were Cwene, who had her arms folded across her chest, and Mildwen and Elflede, who were both shuffling their feet and unable to meet her eye.

"Now, now," Lothíriel said benignly to her servants, smiling indulgently at them, "let us give my husband's sister a proper welcome."

"Good evening, my lady," a chorus of voices broke out, stifling their mirth.

"I came here to give you Elfwine," Gúthwyn spoke, refusing to pay attention to the maids. She also ignored Nethiel, who was standing right at the queen's side. "I thought you might want to get him dressed."

"Of course," Lothíriel answered, the brief vestige of a real smile crossing her face. "Thank you. Will you set him in his cradle? I will see to him in a moment."

Gúthwyn did as she was told. "Do not give your mother any trouble, little one," she whispered as she laid him down, stroking the few wisps of hair on his head. "She has had quite a long day."

"My lady," Cwene said as she finished, "would you like some help getting into your gown?"

Gúthwyn was about to politely decline when Lothíriel interjected. "I think that would be an excellent idea," she said, throwing a cool glance over her shoulder. "Gúthwyn, I must lend you one of my corsets."

There was a few seconds' worth of a confused silence. The maids looked back and forth between the two ladies in puzzlement, clearly not understanding why such a thing was necessary. Nor did Gúthwyn, for that matter.

Cwene broke the quiet by saying, "Begging your pardon, Lothíriel, but she is thin enough as it is. A corset would all but make her disappear!"

For the barest instant, a look in Lothíriel's eyes suggested that she would not mind if that were to be the case, but just as quickly it vanished. "Oh, none of us can doubt that," she mused, giving Gúthwyn a critical once-over. "Although you do tend to appear emaciated at times." Many of the girls unsuccessfully attempted to cover their grins. "However, as I have discovered…" She tugged at the corset. "It will make your breasts look fuller, and while some men may prefer them small, having the figure of Hammel is by no means appealing."

Hysterical laughter broke out at this. Many of the maids were doubled over, howling, clutching their chests and leaning on each other for support. Gúthwyn's mouth opened in shock, and for what felt like years she gaped at her brother's wife. She could not believe that the queen had so openly insulted her. Lothíriel smirked to see her paling face, and then unconcernedly returned to adjusting the ties on her corset.

"Nonsense!" Cwene barked, her authority commanding a near-undivided audience from the maids. Though Lothíriel's head swiveled around to stare at her, the older woman remained undaunted. Éomund's daughter had never seen her so furious. "Gúthwyn has nothing to worry about in terms of her looks—nor do the men seem to think so, if I might remind you of how many of them have asked for her hand. And clearly she has more intelligence than you lot!"

Her last words were directed at the servants, not at Lothíriel, but the withering look that the queen sent towards her was enough to make Gúthwyn worry for her employment.

"Cwene," she whispered, trying to get the woman's attention. "It is all right, really—"

"Shame on you all!" Cwene scolded the girls. "Never have I been so embarrassed to call myself a maid. I have half a mind to speak with the king!"

There was a collective gasp at this, and Lothíriel's eyes narrowed dangerously. Gúthwyn suddenly realized that such a threat was empty: What went on amongst the women would remain hidden from Éomer's ears, and Lothíriel knew that as well as she knew her own name.

"Let us go, my lady," Cwene said, having sufficiently intimidated the maids. "It would not do to be unready for Prince Legolas. You two!" she barked at Mildwen and Elflede, whose cheeks were flaming. "Come with me!"

The young women shot swift, mortified glances at Lothíriel, but the queen pretended to take no notice. Meek as mice, they bowed their heads and scurried over to Cwene. Mildwen looked as if she wished for nothing more than the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

Gúthwyn gave them sympathetic smiles, but her mind was reeling with what Lothíriel had just said to her. She knew her figure left much to be desired; it was not that which bothered her, but the fact that Lothíriel had so effectively turned the maids against her. _Why is she doing this?_ she wondered, bewildered. _What have I ever done to her?_

Yet she could not ask the queen such a question in front of all her servants. Gúthwyn took one last look around the room. Everywhere she turned, an unfriendly face was watching her sullenly. Sighing, Éomund's daughter glanced at the three maids who still respected her. Now she knew why she preferred to spend her time with men, rather than women.

As she left the room, trying to ignore the memory of Lothíriel's triumphant eyes, Cwene fumed indignantly. "The queen should have known better—she should have kept their mouths shut—yet to speak about you as if you were a peasant!"

"I-I am sorry, my lady," Mildwen whispered.

"You have no need to apologize," Gúthwyn answered. "Nor do you," she added to Elflede, who had opened her mouth to repeat Mildwen's words.

The preparations for Legolas' arrival were a subdued affair, with Cwene muttering incessantly about the young women under Lothíriel's wing and the other two maids doing their best to keep themselves unseen. Gúthwyn changed from her grey gown into her blue one, knowing that it would be a formal dinner and not a feast where she would have to worry about it getting stained. Yet her thoughts were not on her dress; nor, when Elflede gently brushed out her hair, did she pay much attention to how her locks appeared.

Lothíriel had made it clear that she had no desire to be companions with Gúthwyn. Upon reflection, Éomund's daughter thought she should have known better: After the queen had given her the stained sheet, it had been evident that she had wanted Gúthwyn to be humiliated. And she had succeeded, just as she had tonight. Shivering a little, Gúthwyn wondered at how she could be so cunning and ruthless. For the life of her, she could not understand why Lothíriel disliked her so.

Once she was dressed, she thanked the maids—somewhat more earnestly than usual—and proceeded to enter the throne room. Hammel and Haiweth were already there, standing next to Cobryn. She waved at them before turning to her brother, who was sitting on his throne and patiently awaiting their guests. Lothíriel was at his side, Elfwine resting serenely on her lap. His mother's arms were carefully supporting him. Though Gúthwyn flushed at the recollection of their encounter, Lothíriel became highly interested in the paintings lined along the wall. For all the queen cared, she might as well have been an insect.

"Sister," Éomer began concernedly as she drew nearer, noting her pale complexion, "are you feeling well?"

"Yes, I am fine," she automatically replied, adjusting the circlet that she wore. "Have the Elves been seen yet?"

Éomer nodded, and a small tremor ran through her. "They are just over a mile from the city walls."

Gúthwyn took a deep breath. As she and her brother fell into a comfortable silence, she began counting, hoping to keep her mind off of Haldor. When she lost track of what number she was on, she took a surreptitious glance at herself. She had been too busy pondering Lothíriel's attitude towards her to pay much attention to the insult itself, but now she could not help but think that there was some truth in the queen's words. Her chest was not flat, yet it had the look of a fourteen-year-old who had not fully developed.

As Cwene had mentioned, the soldiers and guards who had asked for her hand in marriage clearly had not done so because of her voluptuousness. She did not quite know how to feel about that. Lothíriel had obviously deemed it an insult, and so had the rest of the maids, but in all honesty her size had never bothered her before. It seemed to worry others more than her: Hardly a week ever passed when Éomer did not declare her too thin, and whenever she told servants that she was not hungry she was pressed with similar accusations.

Her musings preoccupied her until the sound of the doors opening broke in on them. She started, expecting Legolas to have come into the hall without her noticing, but to her relief it was only Gamling.

Nevertheless, he bowed to Éomer and said, "My lord, they have entered the city."

Immediately, those guards who were still sitting down leaped to their feet, and assumed their welcoming positions along the edges of the throne room. Many of them met Gúthwyn's eye as they did so and smiled. She returned the gestures warmly, though her insides were turning cold with dread. _Do not think of Haldor,_ she ordered herself, straightening her back and looking directly at the entrance. _Do not think of Haldor._

The minutes sped by swifter than one of the _Mearas_, and before Gúthwyn was ready those closest to the open doors began to lean forward excitedly. A group of tall, golden-haired beings were becoming visible. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest, and she clenched her fists briefly before forcing them open again.

An instant later, Prince Legolas of Ithilien stepped into the Golden Hall.


	51. Counting the Suitors

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifty-One:  
**A note on my mention of Elladan and Elrohir: According to J.R.R. Tolkien, they delayed their choice (of whether they wanted to be counted amongst Elves or Men) and remained in Middle-earth for awhile. Since Rivendell to me seems as if it was all but abandoned after the War of the Ring, I decided that they would take up the ruling of the Elves of Lothlórien, what with Celeborn's departure and all (considering they're his grandchildren, it seems not unlikely). To those of you who have interpreted it differently, there you have it. To each their own. The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fifty-One**

When Gúthwyn saw Legolas, she marked at once that he was unchanged. He was still Haldor in all but name and manner. The way he walked, straight-backed and purposeful, brought to mind the Elf who had presided over the training grounds in Mordor. His hair was slightly longer, but it was the same golden color that had made her tremble, and his eyes were the piercing blue that she had been so blinded by.

As he moved forward, the guards at once bowed. The other Elves kept a short distance behind him, though there were two flanking him on either side: she recognized them to be his good friends Raniean and Trelan. She could not help but feel nervous as Legolas drew closer, now and then making eye contact with a familiar face. One of them was Cobryn; he nodded at the advisor, and then smiled a little at the children. Though Haiweth took Hammel's hand, neither of them showed further anxiety.

Gúthwyn's heart hammered wildly in her chest when Legolas came to stand before the throne. His gaze met hers an instant before he bowed, saying only, "My lady Gúthwyn."

"M-My lord," Gúthwyn replied. Remembering her manners, she curtsied. When she glanced up, his eyes were still on her. A tentative smile tugged at his lips.

"How are you?" he asked quietly.

"I am well, thank you," she answered, suddenly at ease. _What was so difficult about that?_ she wondered as he nodded and turned to pay his respects to Éomer.

She felt the gaze of Cobryn on her, but determinedly focused her attention on Legolas. He was bowing to her brother. "Thank you, my lord," he said as he straightened, "for your hospitality."

"Say nothing of it," Éomer responded with a wave of his hand and a grin. "I am always ready to welcome friends into my home."

Legolas received the remark graciously, and turned to Lothíriel. "My lady," he spoke, inclining his head respectfully. "I believe we met in passing at Gondor. Congratulations."

He was referring to Elfwine; Lothíriel glowed happily, adjusting her son so that he could sit more comfortably on her lap. "Thank you," she said courteously. "Unfortunately, we did not have much chance to strengthen our acquaintance. I am pleased that you have honored us with your presence."

The pleasantries continued, until the suggestion of dinner was made. All agreed to this, Gúthwyn secretly glad that the polite conversation need not be prolonged, and shortly thereafter Legolas was escorted to Théodred's chambers. Éomund's daughter tried not to feel relieved as he left, and occupied herself with stammering an offer of drinks to the Elves. They all declined civilly, saying that they would have wine with their dinner.

Momentarily unsure of what to do, she glanced at Éomer for assistance. He rose then, as did Lothíriel. Legolas returned to the hall as the action was undertaken; his timing could not have been better, for Lothíriel immediately ordered the servants to assemble a large table. Most of the guards would be eating with them, the result being that the normal dining accommodations were not big enough to seat everyone.

As several smaller tables were brought out by the servants, Gúthwyn quickly reviewed the seating arrangements. Éomer had been conscientious in not placing too many Elves beside her, though due to her social status as his sister she would be eating directly across from Legolas as his visitor. Gamling would be sitting next to Legolas, but because of his rank such closeness to her could not be helped. Mercifully, the children were allowed to remain at her side; Cobryn would be next to them.

Once the tables had been pushed together, and chairs situated around them, the company made to sit down. Elfwine was given to Bregwyn, as it was never a safe bet to assume that he would not attempt to grab Lothíriel's dinner. Gúthwyn had offered to keep him busy during dinner, not having much of an appetite herself, but Éomer had insisted that for tonight she would not be so inconvenienced. He knew from experience how hard it was to coax his son into eating something; many frustrating hours had he spent doing so, with an arguable lack of success.

"Allow me," Legolas said as she made to sit down. Before she could protest, he pulled her chair out for her. She had no choice but to lower herself into it, and try not to stiffen as he gently pushed it back.

"Thank you," she murmured instead, blushing a little.

As Legolas walked around the table and seated himself across from her, Éomer inquired, "What news is there from Ithilien?"

"Well," Legolas said with a small grin, "I will bore you to sleep with an account of the colony, but first I shall say that I dined with Lord Faramir and your sister Éowyn lately."

"How is she?" Gúthwyn asked immediately, only flushing slightly when Legolas' eyes met hers. Beside her, Éomer leaned forward, also eager to hear news of their sibling.

"They are both doing very well," Legolas replied. "Their home is wonderful. Have you ever seen it?"

Both Éomer and Gúthwyn shook their heads. "Unfortunately, I have not had much time to journey to other places," the king admitted ruefully. "I have left an open invitation for her to visit—she mentioned discussing it with Faramir in her last letter, though from what I understand she is quite happy in her home."

Legolas nodded. "That she is," he confirmed. "They were kind enough to give me a tour of Emyn Arnen, and she almost knew the place better than he did."

Despite the fact that "he" was Faramir, Gúthwyn could not help but grin at this.

"Well, Faramir was away quite frequently in the months following the War of the Ring—after all, the rest of Sauron's allies had to be dealt with," Lothíriel pointed out. "I think we can allow him that."

"Aye, we can," Éomer agreed, slipping an arm around his wife's waist. She blushed furiously, evidently embarrassed at such a display of affection in front of the Elves. Gúthwyn had a sneaking suspicion that Éomer enjoyed seeing her flustered almost as much as he enjoyed seeing her happy.

"So, what news of the colony then?" the king inquired. As he spoke, the servants began setting out the food. Numerous dishes had been prepared, their odors mingling and creating a pleasant scent. Even Gúthwyn did not find it overwhelming.

"It is progressing quiet well," Legolas answered, his pride evident. "The forest is on its way to becoming the place it once was, and my people are content to dwell amongst the trees. That, in itself, is success enough to me."

"A wise sentiment," Lothíriel commented, evoking a smile from the Elf.

"Thank you, my lady," he said.

During the subsequent lull in conversation, Éomer began eating. This signified for everyone to do the same, and soon the hall was filled with chatter. Uneasily, Gúthwyn selected a piece of bread, wondering if she would be able to keep it down. _Stop being so afraid of him,_ she told herself sternly.

_Which one?_ a voice in her head asked, and she could not answer.

"I am going to be traveling to Eryn Lasgalen more frequently now," Legolas said, once everyone had eaten enough to satisfy themselves so that they could attend more sufficiently to the conversation. "My father will be meeting often with the sons of Lord Elrond, who have taken up the ruling of Lothlórien in Celeborn's absence."

"What are their names?" Éomer inquired, knitting his brow. "I recall Aragorn mentioning them—they are twins, are they not?"

Legolas nodded. "Elladan and Elrohir are Celeborn's grandchildren, so it was natural that they should lead the people in his stead."

"What of their mother?" Lothíriel questioned.

"She passed over the Sea," Legolas replied, a brief trace of sadness in his eyes. "Long ago."

"Does this mean that you will be traveling back and forth often?" Éomer asked, making an effort to change the sensitive subject.

"Yes, it does," Legolas replied. "At least three times a year, if not more."

Éomer glanced at Gúthwyn. Her stomach turned over, knowing fully well what the silent inquiry within her brother's gaze was. _Coward…_ the voices whispered. She swallowed, and made no move to shake her head. He nodded in understanding. "You are more than welcome to rest here," he offered to Legolas. "It would be our pleasure to host you."

"Thank you, my lord," Legolas said, his eyes flickering towards Gúthwyn. Not wanting him to see her nervousness, she stared down at her plate, intently picking at the slice of bread she no longer felt like eating.

When she at last looked up, Legolas was discussing various tidings with Éomer, but Cobryn's shrewd gaze was on her. He clearly had not failed to notice that her fork hardly made the journey to her mouth. Afraid that he would say something in front of her brother, she hastily turned to Legolas and asked him if he had heard the news of Frodo.

"Aye," Legolas said, appearing both surprised that she had spoken directly to him and sad at the thought of the Ringbearer's departure. "It is said that Arwen Undómiel gave up her passage to him, so that he might find peace in the West."

"I did not get a chance to see him before he left," Gúthwyn responded. "Nor have I since seen any of the other Hobbits."

"I presume that they are doing well," Legolas said, smiling. "As is befitting of such valiant creatures."

A thought suddenly struck Gúthwyn. "Brother, Merry remains in your service still, does he not?"

"Yes," Éomer confirmed. "Though he swore the oath to Théoden, he renewed it before he returned to his home, and said he would stay a knight of the Mark."

"You must recall him when it is convenient," Lothíriel said. "I have not met him yet, though from what I have heard he is a courteous person."

"He is indeed well-spoken," Legolas replied, "though Frodo was, also, and Samwise I remember composing poetry when the mood struck him."

"When was this?" Gúthwyn asked, not recalling the occasion. Her hands trembled a little when Legolas looked at her.

"In Lothlórien," he explained. "You were still in the Lady's care."

Although Lothíriel raised her eyebrows, no one commented on the event. The rest of dinner was undertaken with similar conversation, in the pattern of friends of old exchanging memories at the fireside. Gúthwyn could not help but observe that Lothíriel at times appeared to feel left out, having not experienced that which was being discussed in great detail, but there was nothing she could do to remedy the situation.

Gradually, they worked their way through numerous courses, few of which appealed to Gúthwyn and most of which made her nauseous. Legolas was polite as always, inquiring about the affairs of Rohan and even speaking to the children about their studies. Hammel generally answered for Haiweth, making Éomund's daughter keenly aware that the girl was still anxious, and she herself could not keep from watching them like a hawk guards its young.

One by one, the other guests began filtering away. Hammel and Haiweth also took their leave at the urging of Gúthwyn, though not without a displeased look from the former and heavy scowling on the latter's part. Before long, only a few guests—including Erkenbrand and Tun—were left. The two men rose shortly after they had exchanged the last tidings of the realms.

"Goodnight, my lord," Erkenbrand said, nodding at Éomer. "Thank you for dinner."

"You are most welcome," Éomer responded. "Do not hesitate to join us again."

Erkenbrand expressed his gratitude, bid Lothíriel farewell, and then turned to Gúthwyn. "Goodnight, my lady," he said with a bow.

"Goodnight, my lord," she answered. "Are you going to be with us long, or will you be traveling to Helm's Deep in the near future?"

"I am hoping to remain here for a time," he said, smiling. "Shall I see you on the training grounds?"

"Of course," Gúthwyn replied. "Yet I will refrain from challenging you, for I heard that Elfhelm was searching for a worthy opponent. He says he is getting tired of beating Gamling."

"He exaggerates," Gamling automatically retorted, though his cheeks turned red when he looked at her. "Rather, he is growing wearisome of losing to me, and is praying for his dignity that Erkenbrand will provide less trouble!"

Erkenbrand laughed at this, and said, "I will be on my guard, then. Wish me luck!"

When they had all done so, the Marshal stepped back so that Tun could say his farewells. He did so, with somewhat less ease than his uncle, and finally looked at Gúthwyn. "My lady," he said awkwardly, bowing. "Sleep well."

"You also, Tun," she murmured, smiling hesitantly at him. "Will you… will you send Brithwen my greetings?"

For a moment, something in his face tightened. "I shall," he said. "Goodnight."

With that, he turned around and strode to the door, so that even Erkenbrand had to hasten his steps to catch up. A faint smirk tugged at Lothíriel's face. This angered Gúthwyn more than anything the queen had done that night, and her fists clenched. Both Éomer and Gamling coughed, and Cobryn's expression remained blank, but Legolas looked at Éomund's daughter in puzzlement. She flushed.

"Well, I am going to turn in," Cobryn announced then, ending the uncomfortable silence. "Goodnight."

"Cobryn," Gúthwyn said as he made to stand up. "May I speak with you tomorrow?" She had yet to tell him of the rumors circulating about her, and of Lothíriel's condescending remarks.

Her friend's eyes fixed on her for a brief moment; she was not altogether sure that he had not read her thoughts when he nodded. "It would be my pleasure," he replied, and bowed.

Once he had gone, Gamling too rose. "I think I will follow him," the captain spoke. "The hour grows late, and I have duties to attend to in the morning."

"Goodnight," Éomer bade him, smiling. "I would certainly not keep you awake, if you must work."

Gamling chuckled. "Do not worry; I have nothing to do the morning after the harvest feast."

Éomer laughed, replying, "Nor would I want any tasks to be undertaken then, for their quality would be dubious at best."

"Then I take it there shall be plenty of drinking games?" Gamling suggested, a sparkle in his eye.

"Yes," Éomer confirmed, earning an exasperated glance from both Gúthwyn and Lothíriel. "Legolas, will you be partaking in any of those?"

"I am afraid not," the Elf said, smirking. "For there are no Dwarves whom I can thoroughly—and appropriately—humiliate."

"Unfortunately, Gimli is at the Glittering Caves, and will likely not want to leave them to join us," Éomer responded.

"Farewell, my lady," Gamling then said to Lothíriel, bowing a little. When he went to do the same to Gúthwyn, however, words failed him. He stood there for several seconds, his cheeks burning.

"Goodnight, Gamling," she said kindly, feeling awful for her refusal.

The captain nodded tersely, and then turned around to leave as swiftly as decorum allowed. Gúthwyn sighed unhappily, wishing that their relationship had not become so strained.

"Forgive me if I am being too bold," Legolas began then, his voice quiet, "but what is wrong with Gamling?"

Éomer and Gúthwyn looked at each other, he with annoyance and she with embarrassment.

"He asked Gúthwyn to marry him," Éomer said at last. "She declined."

Legolas' eyes darted to her, widening slightly. She trembled under the scrutiny.

"I thought it would have been an excellent match," Éomer continued, frowning, "but evidently…"

"Éomer, you thought Elfhelm would have been an excellent match," Gúthwyn reminded him.

"Yet you refused him, also!" Éomer said impatiently. "Both are two very respectable men—nor are they the only ones who have approached me for your hand!"

Gúthwyn sighed, not liking the way the conversation was turning. Legolas was watching them silently, only his eyes showing how surprised he was.

"Personally," Lothíriel remarked, "I think Tun would have been the better choice."

"Well, he is married now," Gúthwyn snapped, for some reason angry that the queen had mentioned him.

"He proposed to you?" Legolas asked quietly, meeting her gaze.

"Yes," Gúthwyn replied, swallowing. "Over a year ago."

"I thought I would see you a wife then," Éomer muttered. "I thought you would be happy with him."

"Brother," Gúthwyn cried, stung, "would you please make it seem as if you are less eager to send me away? For your information, I would have agreed to him more readily than the others!"

"It is nothing like that," Éomer said swiftly, having the good grace to look apologetic. "Do you not recall what I said to you on the morning of Elfhelm's proposal?"

Gúthwyn fell silent, praying that he would not mention her promise.

"If you loved Tun," Lothíriel began, leaning forward, "then why did you not marry him?"

"I never said I loved him," Gúthwyn replied, trying to ignore the memory of that night. "I mean, yes, I do love him, but not… Only as a friend," she finished, mortified that all of this was being said in front of Legolas.

"Sister," Éomer said then, "you told me you would look for a husband. Yet you continue to refuse all of the men!"

Gúthwyn put her hands to her temples. "Éomer," she ground out, "that vow…" Even now, she could not say that she had no intention of following through on it. "Please, listen to me when I say that I am not ready for marriage!"

"You might think that," Lothíriel argued, placing her hand over Éomer's and smiling at him, "but I wedded a fine man when I was two years younger than you are."

Éomund's daughter shook her head, not wanting to admit why the idea of marriage frightened her. "I have not the education to run a household."

"Perhaps we should change that," Éomer said.

"No!" Gúthwyn exclaimed in horror, stiffening.

"I am sorry," Legolas apologized fervently. "I was not aware that I was broaching so sensitive a topic."

"It is not a sensitive topic," Éomer assured him. "Gúthwyn is simply unwilling to realize that becoming a wife is not such a bad thing." As her jaw dropped open, he looked at her. "There are plenty of men in the Mark who would leap for the chance to set their hand in yours. How many have done so already?"

Gúthwyn frowned, trying to remember. "Excuse me for not counting," she said irritably.

"Gúthwyn," Éomer replied, clearly trying to keep his temper in check, "at this point, every man in Rohan who could reasonably be your husband has asked you. The only exception is Erkenbrand!"

"Why?" Legolas inquired, raising his eyebrows.

"He is Tun's uncle," Gúthwyn explained quietly. "Neither of us would do such a thing to him."

Legolas' gaze held hers for a moment. Her face flushed. "I wish," she continued, turning to Éomer, "that you would not put them up to it!"

"Put them up to it?" Éomer echoed. "I have done no such thing—and I hardly encouraged Tun, if you recall. The men do it because they love you, not because I am their king!"

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to retort, but suddenly Éomer sat upright. "I cannot believe I never thought of this before," he said, his eyes wide. "What about Cobryn?"

"No!" Gúthwyn cried, almost before her brother had finished the sentence. Nor was her voice the only one outspoken against the suggestion.

"Why do you not think so?" Éomer asked Lothíriel, knitting his brow.

For a minute, Lothíriel's face was impassive.

"Yes," Gúthwyn said slowly, looking at the queen in confusion. "I would like to hear this also."

"Well," Lothíriel began delicately, "the two of you obviously are not attracted to each other beyond friendship. That is why Tun would have been a better candidate, for you held his hand so frequently."

As Legolas glanced at her, Gúthwyn felt her face flaming and prayed that the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

Unfortunately, she had no luck in that regard. Éomer said then, "Be as it may, at this point perhaps it is not such a bad idea." He turned to her, his voice a little softer. "Sister, I know you would trust Cobryn with your life. I think you would not find yourself unhappy with him."

"Yet neither of us love each other," Gúthwyn murmured. "Nor do we wish to get married. Is it so terrible that I remain without a husband?"

"If Hammel and Haiweth were not in the picture, then I might agree with you," Éomer replied. "But you must understand that an unmarried woman with two children is not looked kindly upon in society, though they are not yours. You saw the way the Gondorian nobles treated you."

Lothíriel's eyes narrowed in her direction.

"I will not marry Cobryn," Gúthwyn said firmly. "I can say with full certainty that neither of us want to."

Éomer sighed. "Gúthwyn, you and I need to speak with each other in private."

"Will you not listen to me?" she hissed, abruptly switching to Rohirric. Even after two years in Edoras, Lothíriel still had not mastered the language, and Legolas knew it no more than he did Dwarvish. "Why do you keep telling me to get married, when I have given you enough reasons why I should not? Or have you already forgotten what—what he did to me?"

She could not mention Haldor's name; her throat constricted and nearly gave out on her.

"I have not forgotten," Éomer said quietly, leaning forward and looking her directly in the eye. Lothíriel was glancing back and forth between them, trying to figure out what they were saying. "But do you, in turn, not recall the reasons I gave to you for seeking out a husband, and how you promised to search for one?"

To this she could only stare at him in disbelief, wondering how he could have held her in his arms as she wept over Haldor's abuse and continue to be one of the fiercest advocates for her marriage. For a horrible instant, she thought she would cry again. She did not want a husband; she wanted only Borogor, who would understand her fears and not think less of her if she cringed from his touch.

"Sister," Éomer appealed to her softly, "will you not listen to logic?"

Furiously, blinking away the blurriness in her eyes, Gúthwyn snarled, "Let us not discuss this in front of our guest, _brother._" She stopped herself just short of saying that her vow meant nothing; that she had given it only to placate him; that any marriage he arranged for her would be loveless and empty.

Éomer fell silent, and his guilt-filled eyes sought to rest on anything other than her. Lothíriel shot him a questioning glance, but he gave no sign of what had transpired between him and Gúthwyn.

"I am sorry," Legolas said again, looking at the three of them awkwardly. "I did not mean to cause an argument."

"It was not your fault," Gúthwyn replied heavily, and stood up. "I am going to bed. Goodnight."

It was rude of her to leave so early, especially since Legolas was there, but she suddenly had no desire to be in the company of others. Before Éomer could protest—which he had seemingly opened his mouth to do—she gave a brief curtsy and hastened away, trying to ignore the memories of Mordor that were swelling up within her.

She only felt a small sense of triumph when she realized that her debate with Éomer had distracted her from Legolas' resemblance to Haldor.


	52. Renewing an Agreement

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifty-Two:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fifty-Two**

All was dark as Gúthwyn stepped outside of the Golden Hall, clutching a blanket around her and shivering in the cool midnight air. A glittering coat of frost already lay upon the grass; the coming of October had brought the first fingers of winter, stretching out to creep over the land. Even though beneath her blanket she had on a woolen nightgown and a thick robe, for a moment she contemplated returning inside because of the chill.

But she could not. Until the sky had turned grey, bringing with it the arrival of a new morning, she would not be able to summon the courage to go back to her room. She had just had a nightmare about Haldor; when she had awoken, the very walls seemed to be closing in on her, and she had barely been able to breathe. Her legs had trembled so much that she had hardly been capable of stumbling out of her bed and through the hallway. Only her fear of the Elves detecting her presence had made her run for the doors, terrified all the while that one of them would stop her.

She should have known that she would dream of Haldor. Seeing Legolas had that effect on her, and it would have been folly to think that she could so easily escape the net of terror that Haldor had woven so tightly around her. Nevertheless, it had been with resignation that she had taken the first breath of air from the mountains, and with a sense of defeat that she now sat down on the top step. She was growing tired of being too weak to battle the voices; tired of feeling nauseous whenever she thought of either Haldor or Legolas; tired of having to leave her room so often.

_Why can I not just forget him?_ she wondered for what felt like the thousandth time that night. _Why can I not put Mordor behind me?_

It was done and over with. The War was a thing of the past, the Enemy now scattered and no longer a threat to the Free Peoples. The Black Land had been destroyed, the Dark Lord's servants either dead or repentant. Haldor's body was rotting on Amon Hen, his hands never again to caress her stomach with the finesse of a murderer admiring his latest kill. Three years had gone by—yet she still could not put it behind her. She was still tormented by her past, each step forward offset by two backwards.

Gúthwyn sighed, drawing the blanket even tighter around her. Adding to her gloom was the fact that things were not likely to get any better: Éomer seemed more determined than ever to see her married, mistakenly believing that it would solve her problems. If he knew how often she had nightmares because of Haldor… how often she had gotten sick because of the Elf… but she could not tell him. He had Lothíriel and Elfwine to take care of now, and she did not want to interfere with his family.

_Who will I end up marrying?_ she asked herself, trying to determine whom Éomer would approve of so wholeheartedly that she would have no choice but to endure the man's courtship and finally accept his proposal of marriage. _Who will I end up lying to for the rest of my life?_

Her first thought was either Elfhelm or Gamling. While she had already refused them, she did not doubt that if their king encouraged them they would try again. But it was wrong to do such a thing; she would not allow it, no matter what her brother said. Nay, it would have to be someone who had not yet asked her. She did not wish to seem conceited, but her prospects were considerably limited in that regard.

Then her mind fell on Cobryn. Her morals just as adamantly argued against a union with him—even more so, if that were possible. Both of them had loved another, and saw no hope of learning to do so again. Being fully aware of what Haldor had done to her, he would never want to bed her. And how could she attempt to be to him what Feride once had been? There was no replacement for the one who had carried his child; it would be an insult to them both to even try.

No, she would not marry him. Yet she understood why such an alliance would seem beneficial to Éomer. The two of them had been close friends for a decade, and Cobryn certainly held a position of honor. It would not be inappropriate for her to marry one of her brother's advisors, especially one who was only seven years older than her and remained untainted by public scandal.

_Well, mostly untainted,_ she thought to herself. If what Elfhelm had said was true, the majority of the younger women in Edoras believed the two of them to be having an affair. But even that would be rendered void if they married, especially so if she did not immediately conceive.

Sighing, Gúthwyn directed her gaze up towards the stars, hoping they would somehow contain the answers to her troubles. _Borogor, what should I do?_ she asked the man she loved silently, trying to imagine him giving her advice. _Should I continue to resist Éomer, and risk dissension between the two of us? Or should I obey him like society says I must, and wed another with my heart still bound to you?_

When of course there was no answer, her thoughts turned to Théodred. _What would he say?_

But it was no use. Her cousin would have agreed with Éomer; moreover, he would have been the king, and without the restraint of her being his own sister he would have been hastier to wed her off to some noble. For what did it matter if she married a man from Rohan? He would still be able to see her every day, even if every night she had to sleep beside a man that she did not love.

_I am not old enough for this,_ Gúthwyn thought wearily, ignoring Lothíriel's frequent reminders that she had married when she was two years younger than Éomund's daughter. She would hold her standards to Éowyn; her sister had been betrothed to Faramir when she was twenty-four. _Éowyn would defend me,_ she decided staunchly, glaring out at the world. _She would make Éomer see reason._

There it was: An idea, so perfect that she could not believe she had never thought of it before. She would write to Éowyn, and ask her to appeal to their brother when she next visited. Éomer was likely to oppose her because he thought that she did not know better—but if Éowyn argued against marrying her off, then surely he would listen to her. It was an excellent plan, and needed only a piece of parchment and a quill to set it in motion.

With a sense of purpose and resolve, Gúthwyn determined to send her plea to Éowyn the very next day. She also had to write to Elphir, as she had just received a letter from him not a week ago. Normally she would have responded much faster, but she had been kept quite busy between watching over Elfwine and trying not to fret over Legolas' imminent visit.

Suddenly, she thought with a sense of alarm, _What if Éomer wants me to marry Elphir?_ He had often alluded to an attraction on the prince's part to her. Even though she was certain that this was not the case, he had the authority to arrange the match. He and Imrahil were on excellent terms; if Éomer convinced the leader of Dol Amroth that their union was an advantageous alliance, it would only be a matter of time before she was sent to the coast to become a princess.

She shivered at the idea. It would not be the worst fate in the world to marry such a noble, kind-hearted, courteous man as Elphir, but it felt like the one furthest from home. She had never even looked upon the Sea before—her soul was comfortable only in the rolling plains of Rohan, below the wide open sky and the mountains that intruded on it only so much as to be pleasant to view, and not to be mourned as barriers.

Before she had more time to dwell on the concept, however, Gúthwyn heard the sound of the doors creaking open. A sharp spike of fear peaked within her as she turned around to see who it was, a sinking feeling in her stomach all the while telling her the answer. Her heart nearly failed her as Legolas stepped onto the landing, evidently intending to gaze at the stars. He stopped short when he saw her.

"Gúthwyn," he said, recovering and nodding.

"My lord," she replied, not quite trusting herself to say his name and instead utter Haldor's.

There was a brief silence, in which he stepped a little closer to her. She tried not to flinch at the sight of his booted feet drawing nearer to her huddled over form. Suddenly, she wished that she had remained standing.

"What has you up at this hour?" he asked quietly, his blue eyes meeting hers.

Her self-restraint temporarily abandoned her, and as she trembled she inched away from him. "Nightmare," she answered shortly.

For a moment, the look in his face was unreadable. "You still get them?" he at length inquired.

Gúthwyn nodded, a strange smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "They have been close companions of mine this past month."

Legolas said nothing to this, but instead asked, "Do you mind if I sit?"

There was no reasonable excuse with which she could refuse him, and she nervously agreed. When he had lowered himself onto the same step as her—maintaining a distance of over five feet between them, something which she was keenly grateful for—he hesitated, and then questioned, "Is it because… is it because of my visit?"

She looked at him, her eyes widening slightly at his perceptiveness. "No," she at last said, but they both knew that her words were not entirely truthful.

"I am sorry," Legolas apologized to her for the third time that night, a saddened expression crossing his face. "I should never have imposed myself on your brother's hospitality."

Angered that he pitied her, angered that she could not overcome so simple a thing, Gúthwyn said, "I-It is my own fault. I am the one who cannot put the past behind me. You should not… you should not apologize. Do you not remember our agreement?"

For a few seconds, he looked startled. Then he nodded. "Aye," he said, smiling a little. "Forgive me for not abiding by it."

In spite of herself, she could not help but raise her eyebrows. Legolas sighed, realizing his mistake. "It is not an easy promise to honor," he mused.

"No," she whispered, hugging herself against the chill. "It is not." It seemed they had many things to apologize to each other for, moreso on her part than his.

"Are you cold?" Legolas asked concernedly, and made to remove his cloak. It was the one Lady Galadriel had given him. "Here, take this—"

"No!" Gúthwyn cried, more sharply than she had intended, and not without the panic that she had sought to conceal within her voice. "N-No," she repeated more quietly, as he refastened the clasp. "Th-Thank you. I am fine."

Legolas appeared as if he wanted to apologize to her, but clearly he recalled their agreement and did not speak the words. Half-ashamed at her outburst, when he had only been trying to help her, Gúthwyn swallowed and stared down at her knees. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Each of them remained absorbed in their own thoughts, until the prince at last broke the silence.

"Do you still come out here often?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn answered, and almost immediately after wondered why she had not lied to him. "I-I mean, not so frequently… but when I get nightmares…"

He nodded in understanding. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Quickly she shook her head. "Th-Thank you," she belatedly added.

Legolas looked at her. "Say nothing of it," he said, the kind expression in his eyes threatening to twist into Haldor's laughing gaze. Gúthwyn felt revolted just thinking of it.

Again, there was quiet between them. She could not work up the courage to say anything; nor would she have been capable of forming an intelligent sentence if she had wanted to. Her mind was struggling not to think of Haldor, trying not to remember the years of his abuse, and how he had manipulated her and toyed with her until he had at last ripped away all her pride.

It was Legolas who finally spoke, who chose a topic that was successful in temporarily driving Haldor away. "I hope I have not strained your relations with your brother," he said ruefully. "I was not aware of the nature of that which I brought up."

Gúthwyn sighed, her mood rapidly deteriorating. "You did not know," she said. "But Éomer seized the excuse to remind me that he desired to see me a wife—despite…" She trailed off, not wanting to say what was wrong with her marrying.

"He said that you promised to look for a husband," Legolas commented, making it sound like a question.

A lump in her throat formed as she nodded, and unexpectedly she found herself confiding in him, "But what else… what else was I supposed to say? He is my brother, and he… he has been good enough to let me live with him all these years, though I have done little to return the favor."

Guilt washed over her. Éomer had always been supportive of her, asking in return only that she try to love another. He had not ridiculed her for falling apart over three years ago; nor had he ever denied Hammel and Haiweth anything that they wanted. While many had muttered about the children and criticized her for it, he had stood by her, not once doubting her story. Who was she to deny him something that would make him happy?

_But why must his happiness come at my expense?_ she wondered in the next moment. _Why can he not content himself with Éowyn marrying?_

"I would not think that he needs you to thank him," Legolas said. "Not even in the form of marrying."

"It does not feel that way," she muttered, and the next instant regretted sounding so childish and ungrateful. "I mean… now it is only getting worse. He… he is frustrated because I have not accepted anyone's proposal, though all of the men are wonderful and would treat me well."

As she spoke, Gúthwyn was glad that it was dark: Her cheeks were likely bright red from blushing so hard, as she was convinced that she was making an even greater fool of herself.

But Legolas only asked, "Does he wish to see you married as soon as possible?"

Gúthwyn shrugged, hoping that was not the case. "He has been speaking more of it lately," she whispered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. "And when Elfwine was born, he asked me if I did not want children of my own."

Unbidden, the tears blurred her vision once more. She turned away from Legolas so that he would not see her weakness. He had already laid eyes on her when she was disgraced and shamed, not worth the dirt on his boots. There was no desire within her to repeat the experience.

He seemed to sense, however, that he had upset her, and no words were spoken between them until the first rays of grey light crept into the sky. It was then that she arose and thanked him. For the second time he had stayed awake with her to keep her company; she wished only that she could truly appreciate it.

But perhaps it was a testament to the effect another's presence had on her that, when she returned to her room, her subsequent rest was disturbed by no further nightmares.

* * *

"I would say good afternoon, but it is dangerously close to evening." 

Having just closed the door to her bedroom, Gúthwyn spun around, only to see Cobryn watching her with a smirk on his face.

"It took me awhile to fall asleep," she explained, once her heart had recovered from the shock of him unexpectedly appearing. "W-What are you doing?"

"I was planning on waking you up," Cobryn replied, raising his eyebrows at her. "Éomer thought you had fallen ill—it is nearly five."

"Is it really?" she asked, bewildered. The sunlight in her room had been different than usual, though she had not thought much about it.

"Yes," Cobryn affirmed. "You, my friend, need to get on a normal sleeping schedule. I will not hesitate to drug you."

Gúthwyn laughed at this, in all actuality feeling far better than she had last night. With elated spirits, she said, "Then you must be prepared to catch me when I tip over. We both know that I cannot hold a drink of any kind."

Such a conclusion had come from the last harvest feast, when she had determinedly sipped her way through a tankard of the mead being served. For the rest of the evening she had been dizzy, and had suffered an awful headache the morning after. Since then, she had resolved never to consume so much ale in one sitting.

Cobryn chuckled at her remark, and then turned serious once more. "What time did you fall asleep?"

"Close to dawn," Gúthwyn admitted, knowing that it was nearly impossible to lie to him.

His brow knit in concern. "Did you have a nightmare?" he asked, his voice lowering.

"Yes," she said, and quickly changed the subject. "May I speak with you about something?"

Her ruse clearly had not been lost on him, but nevertheless he nodded. "Would you like to go elsewhere?" He cast a glance to the children's closed door.

"Is Hammel in there?" Gúthwyn inquired softly.

"He is reading," Cobryn responded. "He recently expressed an interest in the trade of a blacksmith, and I found some books for him on the matter."

For the moment, her troubles with Lothíriel abandoned her, and she frowned. "A blacksmith?" she echoed, puzzled. "What would make him choose that course?"

"Aldeth," Cobryn muttered. "Her father is in the profession. If that is not what made him do it, then I am a Hobbit."

"Ah," Gúthwyn said, her eyes widening in understanding. In a hushed tone, she added, "Has he yet said anything to her?"

"No," Cobryn answered immediately. "I am beginning to doubt that he ever will." Then he fixed her with a sharp gaze. "But that is not what you wanted to talk about, was it."

She shook her head, trying to think of a place that they could go where they would not be disturbed. Her chambers were not a preferable choice, as the two of them were both under a cloud of suspicion from the young women in Edoras, and if the wrong maid happened to walk by the rumors would only be fueled even more.

Cobryn seemed to read her mind, and suggested, "Shall we discuss this at one of the tables in the throne room? There are plenty there that are out of the way, and we will not be heard."

Relieved, Gúthwyn agreed to this, and they left the passage and emerged into the great hall. In a matter of seconds they had selected a suitable table, shortly thereafter sitting down at it. The only other occupants of the room were various advisors, all of whom were too preoccupied with a series of charts to pay attention to what the king's sister and their fellow councilor were conversing about.

"Now," Cobryn said, once they had settled themselves. "What is this about?"

"Yesterday," Gúthwyn began, still lowering her voice for fear of someone overhearing them, "I was with Elfwine on the streets, and I noticed that most of the… well, younger women were looking at me oddly."

"It was not because of your nephew?" Cobryn asked, not seeming as if he needed her to confirm it.

She did anyway. "No," she replied. "I asked Elfhelm about it—there was nothing wrong with my appearance, even if the babe was tugging at my hair—and he said there were still rumors about… about you and I."

"As can be expected," Cobryn said. "It has been less than a month."

"Yes, but…" Gúthwyn bit her lip. A part of her did not want to tell him what else she had learned of Elfhelm; it felt as if he would think less of her for hearing it. _That is ridiculous,_ she told herself firmly. _It is only a rumor. He will know that._

Cobryn prompted her when she fell silent. Shaking her head to clear it from the fog of doubt, she muttered, "According to him, all of the women are saying…" She trailed off, swallowed, and began again. "They are s-saying that I am… s-servicing the men as a-a… as a whore."

Immediately after she uttered this, she stared at the table, not wanting to meet his gaze. She did not see the thinned lines of his mouth, nor how his eyes flashed, nor how he glanced in the direction of Lothíriel's chambers.

"Did he say who started the gossip?" was the only thing that she heard.

Here her fists clenched, and she was able to look at him as she said bitterly, "His sister told him that it was one of the maids. But it takes not a wizard to know which one she was referring to."

Cobryn sighed. "That is only to be expected… Lothíriel likely, ah, _let it slip_ to Nethiel that she had seen us going into your chambers."

"And she did not bother to inform her of our innocence," Gúthwyn snarled, surprising even herself with her vehemence.

"No, of course not," Cobryn answered, his words harsh. "It was an inconvenient detail. But you can rest assured that Lothíriel will rarely say a bad word about you to your own people. She is not as foolish as that. Nethiel is stupid enough; she is too blinded by her love for her mistress that she does not realize the harm of Éomer finding out."

"You are wrong in that regard," Gúthwyn informed him, having no satisfaction in saying so. "I did not tell you about what Lothíriel said to me in front of the other maids."

Cobryn's eyes widened slightly, and he leaned forward. "And what would that be?"

Gúthwyn flushed, trying to decide how to best phrase the insult so that she did not embarrass both of them. "It was the same day I spoke to Elfhelm," she said. "I went to her room to return Elfwine, because he had been parted from her long enough. All of the maids were helping her prepare for dinner."

Here Cobryn rolled his eyes, clearly holding a disregard for those who relied on servants to assist them in dressing. She could understand his irritation of that aspect of nobility: As a slave, he had lived so far removed from those means that to see others enjoying them was almost an insult. Nor had he been born into a family high enough in the social rankings to appreciate such commodities.

"One of them, Cwene… you remember her?"

Cobryn chuckled a little. She had given him a thorough scolding for when he had been using ice packs to help heal his throat—water had been dripping onto the floor, creating extra work for her while she was cleaning. "If you insist on walking," she had fussed irritably, "then do so outside, where it will be a blessing to the parched earth!"

"Yes," he murmured fondly. "I do remember her."

Gúthwyn could not help but smile as she recalled the incident, but her grin quickly disappeared when her thoughts returned to the matter at hand. "She offered to help me get ready. I would have said no, but Lothíriel insisted that she should, and then told me she would lend me one of her corsets."

"Even she could not convince someone with half the wit of Nethiel's that you are less than dangerously underweight," Cobryn muttered, looking at her pointedly.

She ignored the remark, never comfortable with her friends and family discussing how thin she was. Her cheeks, however, were decidedly pink as she continued, "Well, she said I often appeared emaciated. But then, she commented that a corset makes one's… ah…" She stumbled for a moment before settling on: "Chest. It makes their chest seem… seem bigger."

Cobryn hardly blinked at this, but she would not have been surprised if she was redder than an apple. "Then she said that I had the figure of Hammel, and that no man would find it attractive."

When she at last gathered the courage to look at him, his eyes held traces of disgust. "That is just petty," he spat. "She could find nothing more intelligent to say?"

"All of the maids thought it was funny," Gúthwyn said, slightly hurt that he was not more insulted on her behalf.

"Gúthwyn," he said firmly, "anyone with half an eye knows that you have always been thin. And anyone with half an ear has heard of all the men who have asked for your hand, regardless of what Lothíriel thinks about your figure. Do you think they would have done so if you had been repulsive to look at?"

Again she blushed, wishing sorely that she had not brought up the subject. In an effort to change it, she said, "Éomer still wants me to get married."

"He makes no secret of that," Cobryn replied. "Aldor and Aldhelm have been leaning on him to put more pressure on you, but although he would like to heed them he is also mindful of what you and I both have told him."

"I think he _is_ heeding them," she whispered, briefly looking at her hands. "After you left, he started talking about it. He kept reminding me that I had promised to search for a husband, and even spoke about hiring someone to instruct me on how to run a household."

She recalled her own words to Elphir, years before: _When Éomer finds some unfortunate soul to vainly attempt to teach me the skills of being a lady, then I will start worrying._

It seemed the time to do so had come.

"He was more serious than before?" Cobryn asked quietly.

Gúthwyn nodded, trying to get rid of the lump in her throat. "He has never discussed it so openly," she responded, taking a deep breath. "He even said that because of Hammel and Haiweth, it was more important that I wed a respectable man."

"Well, he is right about that," Cobryn remarked, looking uncomfortable. "Gúthwyn… if he pursues this matter, and you do not like the direction in which it turns, I would gladly ask of you your hand. I know we do not love each other as husbands and wives should, but if it helps you escape a marriage less agreeable…"

Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt all the warmth in her body rush to her heart. "By the Valar," she managed, reaching out across the table to take his hand and squeeze it. "I do not know what I did to deserve you…"

She could hardly believe that he had just sacrificed himself for her sake, so that she might not enter a marriage with a man she abhorred. Even as she shook her head, she wondered if she would have done the same, had their positions been reversed. "I will keep your offer in mind," she said, smiling sadly at him, "but I hope it will never come to that. I doubt a union between us would be happy."

"As you wish," Cobryn said, nodding. It was difficult to read the expression in his eyes.

Gúthwyn took a deep breath. "Éomer also suggested that," she informed him. "I told him that neither of us were interested."

Cobryn was silent until she added, "Lothíriel did not want us to marry, either."

When he heard this, he snorted. "I can imagine why."

She smiled, and let go of his hand.

The two of them spoke no more about wedding each other that day; yet in later years, Gúthwyn found herself wondering how her life's course would have changed, had she but accepted his proposal.

* * *

**A/N:** Just to let everyone know, I'm starting school tomorrow, so the updates are going to be less frequent than usual. I hope you can bear with me, and thanks for reading! 


	53. An Early Evening Ride

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifty-Three:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fifty-Three**

_Éowyn,_

_Thank you for your last letter. I am glad that you and Faramir are well—yet I pray that you will visit soon, for you must see Elfwine. He is simply adorable, though beware: He has developed a taste for playing with long hair, much to the annoyance of Lothíriel. Other than that, however, he is as perfect as can be, and Éomer could not be happier. I have seen the two of them often; it is quite an amusing sight, to see our brother fast asleep with Elfwine on his chest! I had gone into his room with the intent of asking him to accompany me on a ride, but I never got the chance, and I am all the more glad for it._

_As for me, I have little to complain about. The children are both doing well in their lessons, and Hammel has begun to read about the trade of a blacksmith. This is because of Aldeth—I do not know if I mentioned it, but that is how her father makes his living. Alas, he has not yet spoken to her beyond a casual conversation; yet he is only twelve, and even if his heart seems quite set on her it is perhaps not what others would deem prudent to express his feelings so early._

_In other news, Legolas is here. He arrived last night. Unfortunately, Éomer chose that dinner to discuss my marriage prospects. Éowyn, he has been doing this with alarming frequency, and was most angered when I resisted him. It is the reason I am writing to you now, especially since a visit from you will (hopefully) be in the near future._

_When next you see Éomer, or even write to him, will you please tell him to stop asking me to find a husband? You know why I do not wish to marry, though he seems to have forgotten. I foolishly promised him that I would do my best to search for love, yet now I bitterly regret doing so, and I am praying that you will be able to convince him that it is not in my best interests to wed another._

_Thank you so much, Gúthwyn_

Éomund's daughter grinned in satisfaction as she lifted the quill off the parchment. _There,_ she thought triumphantly, taking the letter and sealing it. _Now I no longer have to worry about marriage._

She was in such good spirits that she decided to use what minutes were left before dinner by taking Heorot out for a ride. She had not exercised him in over three days; the two of them were long overdue for spending time together. Leaving her letter to Éowyn on her desk, reminding herself to send it off later, she quickly dressed into her riding gown.

A few moments later found her strolling down the stables, humming a tune as she went and feeling nothing but lightness in her heart. Éomer could lecture her about finding a husband until he was blue in the face; but once Éowyn spoke to _him,_ she would no longer have to endure such trials. Her older sister's word, she felt, would be enough to inform him of his folly, and help him realize that ending it would be the best course of action.

Gúthwyn truly believed that this was the case, and in her naïveté she could not see how it would turn out otherwise. So her steps were nimble as she made her way into the stables, and she skipped a little before opening Heorot's stall door.

"Hello, my friend," she murmured, slipping in and stroking his mane. "It has been too long."

He snorted, but grew complacent when she produced a carrot and held it out for his inspection. Soon the offer was accepted, and he chewed contentedly as she began saddling him.

While she was working, someone stepped inside the stables. She glanced over and smiled when she saw Hammel. "Hello," she greeted him happily. "How has your day been?"

"Good," Hammel replied, as usual answering with only the minimum amount of syllables needed. He watched as she took a brush and ran it quickly through Heorot's mane.

"How was your class?" Gúthwyn questioned. From what Cobryn had told her, Hammel was not excelling the art of using a sword, but she had rarely heard the boy's perspective.

Yet Hammel merely shrugged. "Fine."

It would have been easier for Gúthwyn to attempt to take over Gondor than coax a more satisfying explanation from him. The less he said, the less he wanted to discuss it.

"Cobryn told me that he lent you a new book," she commented, setting aside the brush and observing him closely to see his reaction. "How is it?"

If she had hoped for a sign of his undying love for Aldeth in his eyes, she could not have been more sorely mistaken. They were as devoid of expression as ever as he responded, "Very interesting."

"I did not know," Gúthwyn said conversationally, "that you were interested in becoming a blacksmith."

For the briefest instant, something flickered within the twelve-year-old's gaze. Then he said calmly, "I will never be a warrior. It is time to look into other trades."

"What about becoming an advisor, like Cobryn?" Gúthwyn suggested, wondering just how seriously he was considering the profession of Aldeth's father. "I am sure that Éomer would accept you at an earlier age than most."

"Your brother has already done enough for me," was Hammel's reply. "As has Cobryn. I have no desire to be admitted to the council because of those connections."

Gúthwyn was momentarily astounded to hear someone of his age speaking so maturely. Her shock must have been evident on her face, for Hammel shook his head and said, "It matters not right now. Are you going out?"

Closing her mouth, which had opened of its own accord, she nodded. "Would you like to come?"

"Yes," he said simply, and that was the end of that.

She waited patiently while he prepared his own horse, a young stallion named Eadric. The skill of riding had not come as naturally to him and his sister as it had to Éomer, Éowyn, and Gúthwyn, but they had not begun to learn until far later in their lives. Now Hammel could manage his horse perfectly well, and while Haiweth was still afraid of urging the animal faster than a slow canter, she was not as terrified of them as she had once been.

When they were both mounted, Gúthwyn led them out of the stables. Hammel came up beside her as the road broadened, though did not speak for several minutes. They trotted down the main road, careful to keep out of the way of pedestrians, all the while enjoying a comfortable silence. The sun was already nearing the horizon, its bottom curve dipping below the mountains.

As they drew near to the gate, Balman hailed them from atop the watchtower. "Give the prince my compliments," he called, gesturing towards outside the walls. Having not the advantage of height, Gúthwyn was unable to see what he was referring to. Her eyes narrowed in confusion.

"What?"

"I have never seen a better archer, my lady," Balman replied cheerfully. "And that is a fact."

For a moment, Gúthwyn did not understand what he was saying. Why would he be pointing outside and talking about a prince? Her mind, knowing what the answer was before she was willing to accept it, froze. Her hands twitched, Heorot's reins shaking a little. The archery grounds had always been located out in the open, right in front of the city walls. And Éomer had offered Legolas free use of it.

She turned to Hammel, and suddenly perceived that he had known that Legolas would be there.

Dazed, distracted at the prospect of seeing Haldor—no, the prince of Mirkwood, an honored and distinguished warrior—Gúthwyn murmured absently, "Of course."

"Are you all right?" Hammel asked her in an undertone, steering Eadric towards the gates. As he did so, Gúthwyn noticed that he bore with him a knife that Cobryn had given him.

Blinking, Gúthwyn replied, "Yes. I am fine." She marveled that her voice was so steady, when her mind was reeling from the impact of this intrusion upon what had been meant to be a fun ride.

"Do you still want to go out?"

She frowned, trying to conceal the fact that she was taking deep, steadying breaths. "Why would I not?"

Hammel merely nodded, and with that Gúthwyn smiled at the guards. They had been waiting for a command; this was as good as any, and in too short a timespan for her frazzled nerves the gates were thrown wide open. She could not see the archery range yet, since the doors were blocking it, but she could see it clearly in her mind's eye. Legolas would not be there alone; there were bound to be other Elves there. Maybe even all of them.

Hardly aware that she was doing so, she nudged Heorot forward, remembering a time when she had been eight and had been playing a game of dare with Éomer. When it was her turn, Éomer had challenged her to go outside the gates all by herself—something Théoden had never allowed her to do. She had not wanted to go alone; she had wanted Éomer to come with her. But he had taunted her, calling her a coward, and of course she had accepted the dare.

One of the Riders, a faceless man whom Gúthwyn had never known, had been buried that day. There were no guards at the watchtower: They had all gone to pay their respects to the family, and afterwards to the mourning feast at the Golden Hall. Éomer and Gúthwyn had snuck out during the funeral, and he had escorted her to the gates. It had taken them several tries to open them, but at last they had done so, and she had strode determinedly outwards.

The original dare had been to take fifteen steps. However, Gúthwyn had been filled with such boldness that she had gone a sixteenth. She recalled thinking, _That will show Éomer that I am not scared! _Triumph was written across her face when she turned around, only to discover that Éomer had closed the gates on her. Hysterically, she had run towards them, but they had not reopened, not even when she had pounded on them and screamed at her brother. She was locked out.

Later that night, Théodred had gone searching for her. She had first heard his voice and thought it only her mind, speaking to her over the pitiful whimpering of her stomach, but when she had wiped her eyes fiercely enough she could see him running towards her. He had carried her back, holding her tightly as she sobbed, and explained that Éomer had come to him during the feast and told him, ashen-faced, that he had left his sister outside of the city walls. When he had gone back several minutes later to release her, he had not been able to open the doors.

For that, Théoden had spent nearly an hour yelling himself hoarse at Éomer, and had then tucked her into bed with gentle words and a mug of warm milk. He had even allowed her to stay up later than usual, telling her a story about how he and Théodwyn used to go on rides to the Snowbourn and swim until it was too dark to see each other. She had always liked hearing stories about her mother and father, putting actions and words to the blurred faces and loving embraces.

Now, fifteen years later, Gúthwyn rode out of the gates, half-convinced that they would shut behind her and lock her out with Legolas. They did not. Instead, she smiled meaninglessly at Hammel, thinking almost laughingly to herself that he was trying to _protect_ her—he and his knife. She had seen Legolas wield identical blades at Helm's Deep, long and white and painstakingly crafted, and knew that the boy stood no chance against him. Not even Borogor did.

Borogor was her protector, and he was not here now… Well, it was time for her to step out from behind the shield. She had cowered from Legolas long enough. She had concealed her nausea at his presence one too many occasions. As her eyes caught a flash of golden hair, she willed herself to remain calm. Counting, deep breaths; all were exercises she had been taught, all of which she was using now.

It was to her relief that she saw only two other Elves alongside the prince: Raniean and Trelan. She would have thought them his bodyguards, had they not once joked about many assuming the same thing at a dinner long ago. The three of them looked as if they were engaged in an archery competition; at any rate, they were taking turns shooting, jesting with each other and laughing at a particularly bad shot.

Unbeknownst to her, she had slowed Heorot down so that she could watch them, mesmerized in spite of herself by the sight of the arrows whizzing through the air to land almost perfectly in the center of the target. One right after the other they went, only interrupted by the archers' chuckles and conversation. As much as she hated to admit it, Legolas was by far the best she had ever seen, with the exception of Haldor. She thought uneasily of how they were so identical, their limbs straining in the same way as they strung the bow and drew it back as far as they could.

_Borogor did it differently,_ she thought to herself. He had always taken the time, even when it was a mere second or two, to narrow his eyes at the target just before he raised his bow. His fingers had always brushed up against his mouth—thinking of it now created an odd sensation in her stomach, as she wondered what it would have felt like to have him touching her lips—as he drew the string back, and there had been something about the way he had released the arrow… She could not now identify it.

Legolas was about to nock his bow once more when he happened to glance over and see her. He stopped, lowering the weapon. Gúthwyn was unable to see the expression on his face. Beside her, Hammel's eyes turned into slits as Raniean and Trelan also paused, and his hand drifted downward before returning to Eadric's reigns.

She had a message to deliver. Burying the last shreds of nervousness, she nudged Heorot forward. He approached the Elves easily, having none of the qualms that she did. Hammel followed, one of his hands suspiciously close to where the hunting blade was now concealed. She should have hissed at him to be reasonable. Legolas would not attack her in the open with Balman watching; nor had he ever attempted to. Yet something stuck in her throat when she began to.

"Good afternoon," Legolas bade her as she drew nearer, letting his bow hang unthreateningly by his side.

She nodded, silently returning the greeting. "Balman, the watchman, wishes for me to tell you that he has never seen talent such as yours."

Legolas smiled a little; not the arrogant smirk Haldor had given her as he pinned her to his bed, but almost the grin that Hammel had when someone complimented him on his studies. "If he were to journey to my home, he would see some who far surpass me."

Gúthwyn was unsure of what to say next; surprisingly, however, Hammel spoke up instead. "Are you winning?" he asked. When Legolas looked at him, he elucidated. "The contest."

Raniean and Trelan exchanged glances. "That is what he thinks," Trelan finally muttered. In a mock whisper, he added, "We are letting him take the lead—after all, his father _is_ a king."

It was meant to be a joke, and Legolas rolled his eyes in recognition of the fact, but Gúthwyn felt her heart clench. She thought of how the Elves' banter had been painfully absent from the long, grueling training sessions in Mordor. Even Borogor and Beregil had not enjoyed themselves together like Legolas and his friends were doing.

"Where are you riding to?" Legolas inquired then.

Gúthwyn and Hammel looked at each other. "Not very far," Gúthwyn at last said, "for the hour of dinner is nigh. Shall you be joining us at the table, or will your contest last longer?"

She was amazed to hear herself speak so evenly, as if the only history she and Legolas had was their meeting this week. As if she had not been terrified of him for years, the horror only now beginning to recede. As if the War of the Ring had never happened.

"We will be there," Legolas promised, smiling.

Gúthwyn nodded. "Have fun, then," she said, and looked away.

She and Hammel turned their horses around, preparing to ride out through the fields. Although Balman would get concerned if she went beyond the hill a mile away from Edoras, she did not want to be able to see Legolas as he practiced archery. It was bad enough to hear the arrows thumping into the targets, trying not to cringe as she remembered how Haldor had shot the post with a carving of a child in it.

Neither she nor Hammel spoke much for the remainder of their trip. She was absorbed in her own thoughts, and he seemed more content to gaze at the mountains and keep his musings to himself than to initiate conversation. A part of her was hurt, even slightly angered, that he confided in not her but Cobryn; yet he had always kept a certain distance between the two of them. Even when she carried him at the age of five, he had never clung to her as Haiweth had.

Perhaps it was because, unlike with Haiweth, the lines of distinction between her and their mother had never blurred for him. Once or twice in a bleary state between sleep and waking, Haiweth had reached out for her and called her "mama." Yet Hammel had frowned at this, and turned away. He had never come to her after a bad dream, as Haiweth always had; he had never crawled into her arms at night, needing to know that she was there and he was safe.

It came to her then, as Heorot crested the hill with Eadric only slightly behind, that she had had next to no influence on Hammel's growth. She had rarely been with him in Mordor, for between the exhausting training practices and her sessions at Haldor's tent there had only been a few precious hours with which to see the children. He had always hung back from her. Haiweth would run over and embrace her tightly whenever they were reunited, but Hammel merely waved.

_Why is that?_ she wondered. _Why was he never responsive to me?_

A chill ran up her spine as she answered her own question. It was because he knew too much. Dîrbenn himself had alluded to it: _Do not be surprised if he is not so blind to what Haldor did to you as you think._ He was only twelve; he could not have fully realized the implications of her going to the Elf's tent each week, nor her reasons for doing so, but he had sensed that something was wrong. He must have detected something different about her—the mark of a ruined woman, unlike his mother who had slept with only her husband.

The next instant, she shook her head of those thoughts. Hammel had been just five when Haldor had first taken her to his bed. No one of that age would have been able to understand what was happening.

_But what happens when he is older, and begins forming his own explanation for why I was away so many nights?_

Gúthwyn shivered, and wondered if he had not already done so.


	54. The Harvest Feast

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifty-Four:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fifty-Four**

The rest of Legolas' visit passed by without much incident. There was no tour of the city to be given; Gúthwyn did not have to spend more than a couple of hours with him each day. Their conversation was always polite, straying more to the weather and the happenings of the city rather than the days that were long past. He inquired about her prowess with Framwine—she, in turn, asked how his archery was progressing.

Nighttime, however, was a different story. Legolas was with them each dinner, speaking with Éomer about various things in their realms. Her brother did not again bring up the topic of marriage in front of the Elf, but this worried Gúthwyn rather than consoled her, for he was not one to let things go so easily. She spent her meals trying to avoid all mention of anything even remotely connected to the subject, reduced to picking at her food because she was concentrating on where the chatter was headed.

When it was time to retire to her chambers, she found herself plagued by nightmares, through which Haldor and Borogor drifted in and out when she least expected it. She would awake in terror of the Elf's hands wandering all over her, caressing her stomach and sliding her leggings below her thighs; or she would reach out, forgetting that Borogor was not beside her, forgetting that he was not kissing her and gently stroking her hair.

These dreams confused and frightened her more than she cared to admit. Haldor and Borogor were moving so rapidly through her thoughts that sometimes it would be the Elf kissing her tenderly, and the man she loved forcing himself on her. Her chambers became more and more of a prison, a room in which her mind sought to trap her and drive her insane. She hated these dreams; and yet she could not rid herself of them.

Instead of struggling to go back to sleep, she began seeking refuge outside beneath the ageless stars. Nor had she been alone: Legolas had stayed up with her, offering not words of comfort but the mere presence of another. Because the forest of Ithilien was thick, he rarely had the opportunity to see the stars, and thus took the time to watch them every night when he was traveling between the two woods of his homes. So it was that they met each other, something that alarmed Gúthwyn at first, but gradually she became used to it. As much as she was anxious around him, it was better to have someone beside her—even if they were both conscientious in maintaining a five-foot distance—than to suffer alone.

They hardly ever conversed during these times, something that neither of them attempted to change. She found it easier when she did not have to stumble around for an answer or think of how much alike he and Haldor were. It was better to let the silence take its toll than to try to overcome it; she preferred not having to even look at him, but just to know that she was not a solitary figure on the landing of Meduseld.

By the time the harvest feast—and the last night of Legolas' stay—arrived, Gúthwyn could safely say that her sleeping schedule had never been more shattered. She was often so exhausted when she returned to her chambers in the early hours of the morning that she slept until the evening was just beginning to creep over Edoras. Framwine had been kept in its sheathe for several days, and she had hardly been outside.

Both Éomer and Cobryn had expressed, with increasing alarm, that she seemed to be growing thinner and wan. But oddly enough, she did not share their concerns. Yes, she had not been eating as much, because she now slept through breakfast and lunch. Yes, she had not gone outside for more than a few hours this past week, and as a result had a paler complexion. However, with Legolas' departure imminent, she prayed that her nightmares would cease. The thought gave her strength, even as her waist grew slimmer and the circles beneath her eyes darkened.

In the hour remaining before the feast, Gúthwyn dressed herself in her green gown, noting that it hung more loosely on her than when she had last worn it—to the celebration announcing Elfwine's birth to the people. She stared despondently at her hair, wondering if it was even worth the trouble to try and put it up.

"My lady?" A knock on the door accompanied the voice of Cwene. "May I come in?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn called, hoping that she would not wish to brush her hair. A quick look in the mirror showed her that it was still tousled from sleep.

"Oh, you cannot go out like that," Cwene scolded her almost immediately, striding forward and seizing the brush from Gúthwyn's hand. "Tilt your head this way—"

Sighing, Gúthwyn obeyed, and tried not to wince as the comb was yanked through her hair.

"If I had my way, you would be at least twenty pounds heavier," Cwene muttered as she worked, loud enough so that Gúthwyn could hear her clearly.

Gúthwyn did not say anything, and instead glanced at herself in the mirror. Suddenly she knitted her brow: Did her collarbone really stick out that much?

"Shall you wear your hair up or down?" Cwene asked huffily, slightly irritated that her reprimand had gone unmarked.

"Down," Gúthwyn said, staring at the bone below her throat. It might have been a trick of the candlelight and nothing more; yet she thought now that her features looked sunken, almost like that of a skeleton's. She shivered.

"Then I am finished," Cwene said, and set aside the brush. She stood next to Gúthwyn, using the mirror to survey her charge. "Oh, child," she sighed. "You are too thin."

"Cwene, please," Gúthwyn replied, trying not to gape at her collarbone. "It is nothing. Let us go."

With that, she swept from the room, and after a few seconds Cwene followed her. The maid was effective in maintaining a stony silence, which Gúthwyn knew meant not that she was angry with her, but that she was anxious for her health. All too soon, however, their walk was over, and they had entered the already crowded throne room. Éomund's daughter winced slightly at the noise level.

She and Cwene parted then, and she went over to where Éomer was sitting on his throne. Lothíriel was at his side, keeping a close eye on Elfwine. The boy had propped himself up at her feet, and was playing with a large wooden block. It was small enough so that he could stick a corner of it into his mouth, but not so tiny that it could slide into his mouth and choke him.

"Welcome, sister," Éomer greeted her, smiling. "How many minutes ago did you wake?"

Gúthwyn made a face at him as Lothíriel's eyes became devoid of expression. "A few hours past," she answered.

Immediately, Éomer sobered. "That is well after noon," he said worriedly. "You are not eating, you are not—"

"Éomer, I am fine," Gúthwyn insisted. "Really."

"No, you are not," he retorted. "Look at you!" With that, he took his hand and closed it about her wrist. His smallest finger and his thumb overlapped by nearly an inch.

—_Haldor grabbed her wrists, drawing his naked body close to hers and hissing, "This is why your uncle abandoned you: You are pathetic, a disgrace to him!" His hot breath scorched her face and she could not breathe; try as she might, she could not get comfortable underneath him_—

Gúthwyn yanked her hand out of Éomer's grip, drawing back as if she had been scalded. "Stop!" she cried, her voice no more than a whisper.

Éomer's eyes widened. "Sister, are you—"

"I am fine," she repeated, and swiftly surveyed the room to see if anyone had noticed the exchange. Most of the people were chatting with their neighbors, waiting for the feast to begin. Her eyes flicked towards the guards and their wives; Tun was there, talking quietly to Brithwen. She smiled sadly, and then looked to where she knew Cobryn and the children were. Haiweth was prattling on to Hammel, but Cobryn was watching her, his eyes narrowed.

Gúthwyn flushed and turned away, thus not marking that her friend had not been the only one to see her panic. Éomer's concerned gaze was still on her.

"What is wrong?" he asked softly. "Why have you been sleeping so late?"

"Excuse me," was Gúthwyn's response. "I need to get the cup."

It was still her duty to pass around the cup at feasts, which normally she did not mind, since it was an excuse for her to speak with numerous people. This time, however, she was not looking forward to it. She would have to approach Legolas, and after her unexpected memory of Haldor she had no desire to.

As she passed Lothíriel, the queen glanced disdainfully at her, evidently not understanding why she had been frightened by so small an action. Gúthwyn ignored her and made her way over to where the cup was kept, determined to show no further signs of weakness. As if she could demonstrate this by how she was holding the vessel, she clutched the handles as tightly as she was able. There was already wine inside of it; she had to be careful not to spill it.

When she returned to Éomer's side, he was still watching her worriedly, but she pretended to pay him no heed. Eventually he turned his attention to Elfwine, and a fond smile soon appeared on his face as he watched his son. Gúthwyn was glad that he was no longer preoccupied with her, as he had enough troubles managing a kingdom without her adding to them.

A few more minutes passed, in which the last of the guests entered Meduseld. Once the guards closed the doors behind them, Éomer rose to his feet. Immediately the other Rohirrim did as well, including Lothíriel. "My friends," Éomer called, his arms extended in the gesture of welcome. "Tonight, we have gathered here to celebrate the end of our harvest. We are well prepared for the winter. May none be hungry throughout the cold months!"

A round of wild cheering followed this, and the king waited until it had died down before continuing. "Also," he began, turning to where Legolas and the Elves were seated, "this is the last night in which Prince Legolas of Ithilien shall be gracing us with his company, for he leaves tomorrow to continue his journey to Eryn Lasgalen in the north. Let us thank him for accepting our hospitality!"

There was more applause, though most of the people were trying to get a closer look at the fair folk. Legolas acknowledged them politely, smiling at various people. Gúthwyn noticed that some of the maids were watching him intently, giggling to each other. She tried to forget that she had once thought Haldor beautiful… never had she been more mistaken.

_Do not go down that road,_ she warned herself silently. _It was years ago. Forget it._

Such a thing was easier said than done, but at that moment Éomer signaled for the feast to begin. The revelry soared to newfound heights as more dishes than Gúthwyn had ever seen in one place were set down on the tables. Éomer and Lothíriel both made their way over to dine with Elves, as it was customary for the king and queen to eat with their guests during the harvest feast, and Gúthwyn set off to present the cup to various people.

The first table she approached was Cobryn's. Several of the advisors were with him, discussing what appeared to be the trade relations with Gondor. Gúthwyn rolled her eyes, noting that Haiweth had already slipped off to join her friends. Hammel, however, had remained with Cobryn, and was listening intently to the debate.

Clearing her throat as she drew closer, Gúthwyn was rewarded with the nearly undivided attention of the councilors. "You are aware that this is a feast, correct?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "In other words, time to enjoy yourselves?"

"We are," Cobryn replied, smirking as she admonished them. "The fact that you do not have a high tolerance for politics does not mean that the rest of us cannot take pleasure in them."

"Must you do so even at the harvest feast?" Gúthwyn retorted, simultaneously offering him the cup. As he drank out of it, she added, "Surely it is not so difficult to forget about the realm's affairs for one night."

Cobryn handed her the cup, and merely said, "To each his or her own."

She rolled her eyes and turned to Aldor. With a brief curtsy, she asked, "Will you accept this, my lord?"

The old advisor inclined his head as he received the vessel. After he returned it to her and she had given it to Aldhelm, he surveyed her shrewdly and remarked, "Éomer says you are still not willing to consider marriage."

Gúthwyn stiffened, and after a terse moment had passed she asked, "And what do you wish for me to say?"

"That you have reconsidered," Aldor said immediately, eliciting a nod from Aldhelm. "It would do your brother a great service."

"Service or not," Gúthwyn responded sharply, "I will not have myself be auctioned off to whatever noble provides the greatest benefit for his kingdom! Know that, Aldor. If I must marry at all, it will be to a man whom I at least respect!"

"There are plenty of respectable men in both Gondor and the Mark," Aldor spoke dismissively, waving his hand. "You should have been wedded years ago."

Though he had clearly said "wedded," to Gúthwyn it sounded like "bedded." She recoiled, snapping, "I am only twenty-three! Éowyn did not marry until she was a year old than I am now!"

"Then," Aldor said, inclining his head, "your time is running out."

"Peace!" Cobryn interjected sharply, leaning forward as both Hammel and Gúthwyn's eyes widened in shock. "Aldor, leave her alone. She did not come here to discuss this."

"No, I did not," Gúthwyn said shakily. Aldor's words had disturbed her far more than she wanted to admit. "Excuse me," she muttered, her hands white where they were holding the cup. "I have to…"

She did not bother finishing her sentence. Instead she turned away, shaking as she went to the table with the guards. _Your time is running out…_

_No,_ she told herself firmly. _You wrote to Éowyn less than a week ago. She will convince Éomer that he is wrong—all you have to do is wait._

With that in mind, she struggled to clear her thoughts from what Aldor had said. Her eyes fixed on where the guards were sitting, searching for the familiar figures of Elfhelm and Erkenbrand. Once she had given the cup to them, she would at least be able to withdraw and sit down at the table with her brother. It was not until everyone had finished that the dancing would start; until then, she had nothing to do.

When she spotted the two Marshals, she went over to them, plastering a smile on her face that reflected nothing of what she felt. "My lord," she said to each of them, curtsying.

"My lady," they both responded automatically, grinning.

"Have you seen my sister?" Elfhelm inquired after he had taken the cup.

Gúthwyn shook her head. The last time she had spoken to Brytta was some days ago, when she had gone to do her laundry.

"Has Elfwine said anything yet?" Erkenbrand wanted to know, nodding in the direction of Éomer and Lothíriel. Elfwine was sitting in his mother's lap, trying to reach out and grab her food while she was attempting to feed him some broth.

"Nothing coherent," Gúthwyn replied, her smile this time genuine. She could have sworn that, once or twice, her nephew had muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "papa," but it had only been a fleeting moment that was soon gone.

"Well, soon he shall be ordering us about," Erkenbrand said, chuckling.

"I am sure Éomer will put him in his place if he does that," Gúthwyn answered.

"Aye, that he better," Elfhelm said. "Or we shall suffer an indignity akin to being beaten by a woman in sword fighting."

Her bad mood lessening somewhat, Gúthwyn laughed. "That is your own fault," she remarked. "Perhaps you should practice some more."

"I have not seen you on the training grounds recently," Elfhelm commented, raising his eyebrows. "Perhaps it is you who should be practicing."

"Maybe," Gúthwyn said, though the knot in her chest tightened at the mention of her absence. If only she could be rid of the nightmares… "Well, if you both will excuse me, I should return."

Bidding them farewell, she left, heading to where Éomer and Lothíriel were sitting. She tried not to feel nervous as Legolas came into view. His back was towards her, and he was conversing with Éomer about something. It was only when the king saw her and waved her over that the Elf noticed her presence.

"Hello, sister," Éomer said as she approached them. Lothíriel ignored her, smoothing out Elfwine's hair. "Have you spoken with Cobryn, by any chance?"

"Yes, I have," Gúthwyn answered, trying not to look at the other Elves. "He and the rest of the advisors were still discussing politics!"

Éomer chuckled. "Ah well, I can hardly say that I could find more enthusiastic councilors," he replied. "And I suppose that Hammel was paying close attention to every word that they said?"

"Aye, he was," Gúthwyn said with a sigh. "Instead of speaking to children his age!"

"Yes, Éomer, the boy does not seem to have any friends. It is most unbecoming," Lothíriel said, her voice concerned but her eyes, briefly flicking to Gúthwyn, anything but.

"I am sure he will make some," Éomund's daughter responded in spite of her own beliefs to the contrary, angered that Lothíriel had slighted Hammel in that way. Yet mindful of her brother, none of this carried over into her tone, which showed only optimism. Éomer detected nothing of the tensions between his wife and his sister.

In an effort to steer the conversation away from Hammel, Gúthwyn asked, "Were you looking for Cobryn?"

"Oh, I shall speak with him later," Éomer said, taking a long drink from his mug. When he had finished, he explained, "We have yet to finish talking about something."

_Likely various charts, or something equally boring,_ Gúthwyn thought, resisting the urge to sigh.

Remembering suddenly that she had yet to give the cup to Legolas, who was watching their conversation quietly, Gúthwyn curtsied to the Elf and held the vessel out to him. "Will you received the good will of the Mark, my lord?"

Legolas accepted it with a smile, and drank a little from it before returning it to her. "Thank you, Gúthwyn," he said.

Their eyes met for a few seconds, the memories of many a sleepless night lingering within them until Gúthwyn, unable to bear the similarities between him and Haldor, looked away. She then walked around the table to sit beside Lothíriel, gazing down at her empty plate. The queen's frostiness towards her was so tangible that she thought the very air had grown cooler.

At that moment, a noise distracted her from her musings. Glancing up, she saw that Elfwine was straining to reach her, pressing against his mother's arms and trying to grab Gúthwyn with his chubby fingers. Lothíriel tried to restrain him, but when he began fussing and seemed on the verge of screaming, she sighed in exasperation.

"Would you mind?" she asked, looking apologetic for the first time in Gúthwyn's recollection.

"Not at all," Gúthwyn said, and held out her arms as Lothíriel transferred Elfwine over to her. Immediately Elfwine settled down, grabbing a fistful of her hair for good measure. Smiling, Gúthwyn murmured, "Hello, little one."

Elfwine gurgled unintelligibly, gazing up at her with his adorable brown eyes. Gúthwyn felt herself falling in love with her nephew. He was truly her brother's son. She propped him up on her lap, allowing him better access to her locks, and adjusted the blanket around him.

When she looked up, Legolas was watching her. "He seems to like your hair," he said, a trace of a grin playing upon his face.

"That he does," Gúthwyn replied fondly.

"Elfwine!" Éomer exclaimed then. "Do not put it in your mouth—"

But it was too late. When Gúthwyn next looked down, Elfwine was sucking contentedly on her hair. Only an impish grin suggested that he had even recognized Éomer's words.

Her brother sighed. "Gúthwyn, I am sorry—"

"It is all right," Gúthwyn assured him, and bent down to discourage Elfwine. "Hands, little one," she said gently, taking his fingers and placing them on her hair. At the same time, she began to slip her hair out of his mouth, hoping he would be pleased enough to hold it. "We use our hands, not our mouths."

Elfwine looked at her dolefully, but did not try to eat her hair again. Gúthwyn viewed this as a success, and smilingly glanced up. Éomer was still watching her.

"You need to eat," he said bluntly, pointing at her plate. The pewter—reserved for fancier occasions—was still gleaming from the polish the servants had used on it.

Gúthwyn sighed, and obediently took some bread from the basket near her. She ripped off a small chunk and put it in her mouth, chewing on it for several seconds. Although she was somewhat hungry, she disliked being chastised by Éomer. Her brother studied her for another minute, looking displeased that she was not eating more but seemingly unwilling to make a scene in front of the Elves.

The rest of the dinner passed without incident, or indeed anything to distinguish it from all the other meals Gúthwyn had had. The sole difference was the amount of chatter she was able to hear; the noise filled the Golden Hall comfortably. She liked listening to the talk of the people, even if she was hardly able to discern one voice from the other. As long as they were happy, she was glad.

For most of the time, she played quietly with Elfwine, only stopping to eat her bread. As more and more people began putting aside their plates, a group of musicians settled themselves in a corner and started playing a lively tune. Within moments, space had been cleared aside from the dancers, and a whirlwind of gowns and laughter was all that could be seen from them.

Éomer set down his fork and knife and glanced at Lothíriel, a smile on his face. "Would you care to dance with me, my lady wife?" he inquired.

Lothíriel's response was to set her hand in his. "Certainly, my lord husband."

With that, they arose. They had gotten to their feet when Gúthwyn realized that their departure would leave her alone with the Elves. She started, upsetting Elfwine, and stared in panic at her brother.

"Sister, were you intending on dancing with anyone?" Éomer questioned, his eyes not even on her: They were scanning the crowd.

"N-No," she said, feeling the beginnings of terror creep through her. "But—"

"Here comes Cobryn," Éomer interrupted her, and smiled. "Between him and Legolas, you should be in capable hands."

When she had twisted around to ascertain that it was, in fact, Cobryn making his way towards their table, she understood her brother's intent and turned back in utter relief to face him. As their eyes met, he nodded.

"Do not worry, baby sister," he said softly as he and Lothíriel passed her on their way to join the dancers. He patted her shoulder, and then he was gone.

At that moment, Cobryn arrived at the table. "May I sit?" he asked, gesturing to Lothíriel's empty seat.

"Please do," Gúthwyn said, more anxious for him to do so than she cared to admit.

"I left Hammel with the other advisors," Cobryn informed her, acknowledging her gratitude with the smallest inclination of his head. "He may or may not join Haiweth."

"From what I have heard," Legolas spoke, clearly aware of what Éomer had just done for Gúthwyn's sake but equally tactful in not saying anything, "Hammel is fast on his way to becoming Éomer's youngest councilor."

Cobryn chuckled a little, but Gúthwyn shook her head. "He told me that he did not wish to get the title because of his connections to Éomer or Cobryn."

Elfwine blew a bubble of spit, giggling when it popped. She gently cleaned his mouth with a napkin, now far more relaxed than she had been a few seconds ago.

"He said that?" Cobryn asked, on a rare occasion seeming puzzled. "Interesting…"

"Is he thinking of pursuing a trade?" Legolas questioned, looking at her. Her hold on Elfwine instinctively tightened.

"Ah," Cobryn said then, sparing her the reply. "So he _is_ serious about becoming a blacksmith."

"I never know what he is thinking," Gúthwyn answered, sighing as Elfwine yanked at her hair. "He rarely confides in me."

"He rarely confides in anyone," Cobryn responded, shaking his head. "According to the wise, that shows the markings of intelligence, but he is only a child—regardless of how smart he is."

"He has had precious little time to act his own age," Gúthwyn murmured ruefully. "As much as I love him, I wish that he had some companions. Do the other boys still make fun of him?"

"Wulfríd does," Cobryn said heavily. "And the boys follow him. Then again, Hammel makes it easy, because of his lack of progress with a sword."

"Has he been training?" Legolas asked, knitting his brow. "I had thought otherwise."

"He has," Cobryn confirmed. "It is my belief that he has talent, but he simply will not use it. He will not stop taking the class, yet he does not try at all."

"That is a shame," Legolas spoke, "though as you have said, he is intelligent, and that is far from dishonorable."

As Cobryn said something in return, Gúthwyn surreptitiously glanced at the other Elves. They were conversing in their native tongue, of which she knew not a word and subsequently could not understand them. Raniean and Trelan appeared to be listening to both their speech and that of Legolas', contributing now and then with a comment of their own in Elvish.

Not wanting to gaze at them too long, in case one of them made eye contact with her, she looked down at Elfwine. He was fast on his way to falling asleep; his lids were half-closed, and his grip on her hair had loosened. Smiling, she cradled him against her chest, stroking his hair absent-mindedly. "Good night, little one," she whispered. A few seconds later, her nephew had shut his eyes. His tiny chest soon rose peacefully up and down. Not long after, his hand drifted to his mouth, and he began to suck on his thumb.

She was so absorbed in what she was doing that it was a full minute before she realized that someone was watching her. When she glanced up, it was only to meet Legolas' piercing blue eyes.

"You are good with children," he observed quietly, gesturing towards Elfwine.

Gúthwyn felt herself flushing as she stammered, "Th-Thank you."

Luckily, she did not have to say anything else, for it was then that Éomer and Lothíriel came back, their cheeks pink from dancing. Cobryn got out of his seat so that the queen could take it, giving a small bow. His eyes never went to the floor.

"Well, sister, did you find your company amiable?" Éomer inquired, the real question lying within the depths of his gaze.

Gúthwyn nodded. "Yes, I did," she replied. "Thank you."

"Here, I will take Elfwine," Lothíriel said as she sat down. Carefully, Gúthwyn scooped her nephew up from her lap and handed him over, making sure that his head was supported the entire time.

No sooner had she done so than someone approached their table: Elfhelm.

"Greetings," he said to all of them, bowing. His eyes fell on Gúthwyn. "My lady," he began courteously. "May I have the honor of dancing with you?"

Grinning, Gúthwyn rose from her seat. "Of course, my lord," she said, glad to be able to join her people instead of spend the entire night with the Elves. Walking around the table, she set her hand in his, and briefly glanced at Cobryn. "You can take my seat, if you wish," she said with a smile. "I shall not be returning for quite some time."

With that, she and the Marshal departed, making their way to where the other dancers were twirling and clapping to the music.

"I confess myself to have been waiting for the opportune moment in which to make my advances," Elfhelm muttered as they came together, his left hand clasping her right and his other resting on her back: The way in which the other couples were aligned.

Gúthwyn laughed, knowing that she was no longer in danger of him asking her to marry him. "And what made you decide that that was the opportune moment?"

"You were not entertaining our guests with a baby in your lap," he answered with a smirk, guiding her through a turn.

Giggling, Gúthwyn said lightly, "I would hardly call it entertaining. I certainly put Elfwine to sleep!"

"Ah, well. He cannot appreciate your presence like the rest of us do," Elfhelm teased her, chuckling when she blushed.

Their banter continued, and all too soon for her preference the song ended. As it did, she was asked to dance by Ceorl, and happily obliged. The next couple of hours were a whirlwind of partners, laughing conversation, and amusing instances in which she demonstrated that she still had much to learn in the art of dancing. Stepping on others' feet and stumbling her way through turns were not uncommon; rather than become embarrassed, she made fun of her mishaps.

As the musicians started slowing down and playing waltzes, Gúthwyn retired, having not the skill to attempt such movements. She walked back to her table, noting that Elfwine was awake once more and playing with Lothíriel's hair.

"There you are, sister!" Éomer exclaimed jovially. "I was beginning to wonder how much longer we were going to have to wait for your company."

Lothíriel suddenly became very interested in ensuring that Elfwine was snugly wrapped in his blanket.

"Well, I am here," Gúthwyn said. Looking at her seat, she saw that Cobryn was missing. "Where did Cobryn go?"

"He went to get a drink," Éomer said, glancing down at his own mug. "Perhaps I should, as well. This is nearly empty."

He kissed Lothíriel on the brow and then left, exchanging a few words with some of the guards as he fell into line behind the still.

Legolas stood up then, and turned to Gúthwyn. "My lady," he said with a bow. "If you are not too fatigued, may I have this dance?"

"I-I am not tired," she replied, feeling a small tremor run through her body. "Of c-course you may."

Her sense of vulnerability increased when he held out his hand. After a moment's hesitation, she took it. As they walked to where the few dancers hardy enough to last the entire night were, she swallowed and said, "I still have not learned to waltz."

He smiled, and replied, "Then I shall dance however you wish me to."

She was flustered by this comment and bit her lip, not knowing what to say. All too soon they came to the space that had been cleared, and she had to put her other hand in his. Most of the men around them had a hand resting on the curve of their partner's waist, but it was an unspoken agreement between her and Legolas that they should not do so. To her relief, he also kept a foot away from her at all times.

They were moving in a slow circle, omitting the more intricate steps. "Have you been enjoying yourself?" he asked her.

"Y-Yes, I have," Gúthwyn said, trying not to betray her nervousness. "What of you? Have you tasted the mead?"

Belatedly, she realized that he had been drinking from a tankard while he was speaking to her and Cobryn; she hoped that he had not noticed her error.

"It is very good," Legolas responded, answering the last question first. "And of course, my time here is always enjoyable."

His words sounded like a compliment to her, but her throat closed and she did not know how to accept it. They danced in silence for another minute, until he inquired softly, "Do you think your nightmares will disappear soon?"

Gúthwyn drew in a sharp breath, and when her eyes met his she could not help but tremble. "I-I hope so," she said. "I just… I just want them to go away."

"Is my presence making them worse?" Legolas wanted to know, his voice somber.

"It should not," Gúthwyn said, slightly surprised at how bitter her tone was. "It is my own fault for not being able to forget about him."

"Do not blame yourself," Legolas said gently when she looked away. "There are many things in life one wishes not to remember, but does so anyway."

The conversation was drawing her dangerously close to tears. She forced the lump in her throat downwards and asked, "How long are you going to be visiting your father?"

He nodded, signifying that he understood her need to change the subject, and said, "A couple of months. It has been over two years since we last saw each other, and though that is not a great amount of time, I miss his strict ways."

"So you will come back to Ithilien at the end of the year?" she inquired as they completed another turn.

"Yes," Legolas said. "That is what I am hoping for."

"Will you send my greetings to my sister?" Gúthwyn asked. "I have not seen her for what feels like ages."

"I shall," Legolas replied. "She is most eager to see you again, from what I have heard."

"As am I."

"Have you given any thought to traveling to Emyn Arnen?" he questioned. "It is a beautiful place."

"No, I have not," Gúthwyn said. "I wish to see her, but my heart does not belong to the mountains."

Legolas smiled. "Nor does mine," he remarked. "I know the feeling."

_Yet even the plains and rolling fields of my people are second to Borogor,_ Gúthwyn thought with a sigh. _I would rather live in a cave, if it meant I could be with him._

"Are you all right?" Legolas asked then, detecting her change of mood.

Mentally she shook her head, and replied, "I am fine."

"I saw you with Éomer upon the dais," he ventured hesitantly. "You seemed distressed about something."

She remembered recoiling from her brother, loathing the touch of his hand on her wrist. A tremor ran through her as she shook her head. "It was nothing," she said. "He was just concerned about my sleeping habits."

Legolas looked at her, his eyes displaying some of the worry that Éomer held for her. "So am I," he said quietly.

Few words passed between them after. The dance was coming to a close; the music became slower and slower, until at last it was brought to a stop. A round of applause followed, in which Gúthwyn stepped away from Legolas and took her hands out of his.

"Thank you," she said, remembering her manners and curtsying.

"You are most welcome," Legolas responded with a nod. "Yet it is I who should be thanking you."

To this she could only blush, and he escorted her back to Éomer's table. They parted then, for he explained that he wished to fill his tankard once more. Somewhat relieved that she would not be in his company for awhile, Gúthwyn sat down next to Cobryn. Mercifully, most of the Elves had left the table.

"Welcome back," Cobryn greeted her. "How was your dance?"

"It was fine," Gúthwyn said automatically. Feeling Éomer's eyes upon her, she added, "Unfortunately, I am still not the most adept dancer."

The corners of Lothíriel's lips tugged upwards. Then she returned her attentions to Elfwine, who was again asleep in her arms.

"Well, sister," Éomer said with a chuckle, "at least the men are more than willing to teach you."

Gúthwyn laughed a little. "Aye. That is indeed—luckily—the case." Glancing down at her plate, she saw her bread from earlier was still unfinished. Sighing, she tore off a small piece, not at all inclined to have it.

"Is that all you have eaten?" Cobryn asked then, his eyes narrowed.

As Éomer's gaze swiveled towards her again, Éomund's daughter shrugged uneasily.

"Gúthwyn, you are too thin," Cobryn said sternly, correctly interpreting the gesture. "When was the last time you ate, aside from tonight?"

Gúthwyn frowned, trying to remember. She thought she had eaten something yesterday… But she had slept through lunch because of her nightmares. A shiver spread through her, and she struggled to forget Haldor's mouth devouring hers.

Cobryn's eyes darkened. "Finish this," he commanded, and set another slice of bread in front of her.

Her mouth opened slightly, but when she looked at Éomer for assistance he was nodding at what Cobryn had said.

"Also," her friend continued, reaching down for a second mug that was beside his plate, "drink this. You have been dancing all night."

"Since when did you put yourself in charge of my diet?" Gúthwyn asked irritably, nevertheless starting on the new piece of bread. She had no interest in consuming the whole thing—she simply was not hungry—but she was not in the mood to argue with anyone.

"Since you decided to abandon it," Cobryn said sharply. "Drink."

If anyone else had ordered her in that manner, she would have ignored them. Yet she only rolled her eyes as she took a sip of whatever was inside the tankard. It did not taste like mead.

"What is this?" she asked, frowning. It was sweeter than she would have expected.

"It is a milder type of ale," Cobryn explained. "I know you do not like what your brother here has showed himself so capable of downing."

Éomer snorted. Smirking, Gúthwyn drank some more, glad that Cobryn had remembered that the normal mead was not to her tastes. Almost mechanically, she ate another piece of her bread.

"My lord," Cobryn said then, addressing Éomer. "Did you see the chart I left for you about the amount of exported sheep wool?"

"I will look at them tomorrow," Éomer promised. Gúthwyn found herself yawning. She covered it up, not wishing to seem rude, but it was followed by another one. Lothíriel noticed and glanced coolly at her.

Drink, tear, eat, swallow.

"You will find the number of barrels has increased over the past five years," Cobryn said. "As have the revenues."

_By the Valar, this is boring,_ Gúthwyn thought to herself, repressing a third yawn. She tried to concentrate on her meal. Drink, tear, eat, swallow.

"Excellent," Éomer replied. "Do you have an estimate for when we shall be able to turn our attentions on repairing the roads?"

"Perhaps as early as spring," was Cobryn's answer.

Drink, tear, eat, swallow.

Gúthwyn did not realize that she had yawned again until there was a halt in the monotonous conversation.

"Maybe you should turn in for the night," Lothíriel suggested, her tone kind but her eyes flaring.

"Are you tired?" Éomer asked concernedly.

"Sorry," Gúthwyn said, simultaneously shaking her head. "I did not mean to—I should not be…"

She was exhausted now, and could not understand why. _Is my lack of sleep finally catching up to me?_ she wondered, setting down her mug. All of a sudden, it seemed too heavy to lift. _Or did I dance too much?_

"Gúthwyn?" Éomer questioned, leaning forward. For some reason, his figure was blurry, and she could barely make out his features. His voice sounded as if he were a thousand miles away.

"Sorry," she said again, feeling her lids beginning to droop heavily downwards. Try though she might, she could not get them fully open once more. "I do not know why—I am not…"

She yawned, and for a frightening moment the world spun in a dizzying circle. Her head nodded irresistibly forward.

"What… what is wrong?" she asked thickly, attempting vainly to right herself.

"I drugged you," Cobryn informed her.

It took several seconds for his words to make sense, but when they did, she gaped at his dim figure. "You… you what? W…Why?"

"You need to start sleeping normally," he said. "Your rest will not be disturbed tonight, I promise. Close your eyes."

His words were so tempting… but she resisted them. "Éomer," she mumbled, wondering why he had not said a word. Should he not have tried to stop Cobryn?

She looked at her brother.

"Goodnight," Éomer bade her, and smiled.

Everything turned black.


	55. Defenses Lacking

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifty-Five:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fifty-Five**

When Gúthwyn next awoke, the sunlight in her room was directly where it should have been. It was noon, and for the first time in a week she had not had a nightmare. A relaxed smile came to her face as she lay there, curling up under the warm comforters and enjoying the feel of the soft pillow against her cheek. The edge of the blanket tickled her throat, and she brushed it against her lips briefly before lowering it.

_I must thank Cobryn,_ she thought, sighing contentedly. _What did I ever do to deserve him?_

As the light from the sun played across her face, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sat up. Only a few of the candles were burning: The one resting on her nightstand, another on her dresser, and a third on her desk. The rest were not even dripping with wax—Cobryn had not lit them at all. Despite the fact that she had been drugged, she felt a sense of triumph that she had slept with so little light in her room.

Letting the blankets drape loosely around her, Gúthwyn absent-mindedly tugged at the shoulder of her nightgown and thought about what she would do that day. She would have to thank Cobryn; that was one of the first items on the list. Afterwards, she would get a satisfactory training session in… perhaps then she could pick up Haiweth's lessons, which had been temporarily suspended during Legolas' visit. Or maybe she could convince Éomer to go on a ride with her…

Before she had time to decide, all the while thinking that there was something she had forgotten, there was a knock on her door.

"My lady?" Mildwen's tentative voice called.

"Come in," Gúthwyn answered, after a quick check to ensure that her nightgown had not dislodged itself too much. Her hair was still tousled from sleep, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Mildwen entered the room, immediately closing the door behind her. "Begging your pardon, my lady," she said, her breathing slightly uneven, "but you have a visitor."

"A visitor?" Gúthwyn asked, mildly alarmed. She sat up straighter. "Who is it?"

"Prince Legolas," Mildwen said. "He wanted to say farewell, if you were awake."

"Oh!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, bolting out of bed. She had completely forgotten that the harvest feast was his last night in Edoras. "Is he… is he outside?" Hastily she opened her dresser, reaching for the nearest robe.

"Yes, my lady," Mildwen replied anxiously. "Would you like me to brush your hair?"

Gúthwyn looked at it in the mirror and decided that it was not worth the time. "No, thank you," she said, drawing the robe tightly around her.

Mildwen nodded, somehow managing to curtsy while she was moving towards the door. She opened it, and Éomund's daughter approached the hallway with no small amount of trepidation. As she stepped outside, instinctively clutching her robe around her, she felt her heart pound rapidly within her chest. Legolas was waiting outside, leaning against the wall and looking at a painting that had been hung there. When he caught sight of her, he bowed.

"I hope I did not wake you," he said.

"N-No, you did not," Gúthwyn replied, keenly aware of Mildwen hovering in the background. The maid was evidently trying to make sure that her lady was safe in the hands of the prince. Although, reasonably, she should have had nothing to worry about, Gúthwyn could not help but be grateful for her anxiety.

"Are you feeling well?" Legolas inquired, looking concerned. "I saw Éomer carrying you to your room."

"Oh," Gúthwyn said, blushing with embarrassment as she realized that he had seen her inebriated state. "Cobryn gave me a sleeping draught of some sorts. I did not know that he had until I had drunk half of the mug."

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "He mentioned that. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I am fine," Gúthwyn answered, smiling a little. "I did not have any nightmares."

No sooner had she said that than she flushed, for she had not intended to talk about her troubling dreams.

"That is good," Legolas said, inclining his head. "I am glad to hear it."

"Th-Thank you," Gúthwyn responded, not sure what else to say. There was an awkward pause until she mustered the courage to ask, "Are you leaving now?"

"Yes," Legolas confirmed. "As we speak, the horses are being readied."

Gúthwyn mulled this over for a few seconds, and then swallowed. "I will go with you outside," she announced, simultaneously shivering and clenching the fabric of her robe tightly.

"Are you sure?" Legolas asked, seeming surprised. "It would not be necessary."

"What kind of a host would I be if I did not bid my guests farewell in proper fashion?" Gúthwyn questioned, attempting to smile nonchalantly. "Let me just get some slippers on."

Before she could have second thoughts about her decision, she retreated into her room, and stuck her foot under her bed in search of some shoes. The first pair she pulled out did not match her outfit; nevertheless, she was about to put them on when she decided against them. _You should at least look presentable,_ she told herself, and took out another pair. This time, they somewhat coordinated.

Once she was ready, she came back outside to where Legolas was still standing. Mildwen had departed, her cheeks bright red, upon the news that her lady would soon be traveling outside—there, she would be under the close watch of Éomer. "Shall we go?" Gúthwyn asked, looking up at the Elf.

"Your company is appreciated," Legolas said as they began walking. "Though I pray I have not inconvenienced you."

"No," she assured him. "Not at all."

As they entered the throne room, he asked with a lowered voice, "Would it be troublesome to you if I visited on the journey back? I will not stop if you say yes."

"It would not," Gúthwyn said, trying to convince herself that it was not wholly a lie. "I-I would like to see you again."

The words slipped out of her before she was even aware that her mouth was forming them. Her face turned red, and she looked down at her feet. It was the defiant part of her, the piece that would give anything to be able to have a conversation with him and not think of Haldor at any point, that had spoken—yet it had phrased her thoughts in a mortifying fashion.

"Thank you," Legolas said quietly, and held one of the doors open. She nodded her head in gratitude, a pink tint still coloring her cheeks, and went outside with her head bowed. The sun beat down on her brow, momentarily creating an uncomfortable sensation along her forehead. Soon, however, it dispersed, and she was able to clearly see the Elves and their mounts. A great crowd had gathered around them.

Éomer and Lothíriel were standing beside the departing guests, evidently waiting for Legolas. When the former saw her, he smiled. Her irritation with him for allowing Cobryn to drug her vanished, and she waved back, fully intending to thank him for her good night's sleep.

As they approached, Éomer called out, "Sister! I am glad to see you up at a reasonable hour!"

She grinned, although Lothíriel's face was stony. "As much as I hate to admit it," Gúthwyn said, "I must thank you and Cobryn. I have not rested so well in months."

"Let us hope that we never have to resort to sleeping potions again," Éomer murmured, the relief on his face evident.

At that moment, Gúthwyn was hailed by a high-pitched voice that she immediately recognized to be Haiweth. When she turned around, the girl was running towards her, keeping as far from Legolas as she possibly could.

"You did not talk to me at the feast," she accused, coming breathlessly to a halt in front of her. "And you did not see my dress!"

"I heard that you were the prettiest dancer," Gúthwyn said as means of consolation, and ruffled Haiweth's hair. "I am sorry, little one. Éomer and Cobryn were discussing politics, and I fell asleep."

Haiweth wrinkled her nose. "Boring," she declared. Then she glanced at the Elves. "Are they leaving now?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

"They are," Gúthwyn affirmed, keeping her hand on Haiweth's shoulder as she looked back at Legolas. He was exchanging a few brief words with Éomer and Lothíriel, thanking them for their hospitality. The king and queen responded cordially, welcoming him to return whenever he desired.

When those goodbyes were carried out, Legolas turned to Gúthwyn and Haiweth. "Farewell, my lady Gúthwyn," he said, bowing.

"My lord," she replied, and curtsied. Her hand never left Haiweth; all too well she recalled Haldor threatening the child, saying that he would force himself on her if Gúthwyn did not do as he pleased. While Legolas had shown nothing but courtesy to the girl, Éomund's daughter could not help but feel protective of her.

As it was, when Legolas glanced at Haiweth, she instinctively clutched Gúthwyn's hand. "Goodbye, Haiweth," Legolas said politely, his eyes guarded as he beheld the child.

At a nod from Gúthwyn, Haiweth curtsied, stumbling a little when she dipped too low. "Goodbye," she muttered, edging closer to Gúthwyn.

Legolas gave a small smile, and then his gaze focused on something beyond their shoulders. "Farewell, Hammel," he said.

Gúthwyn started, and twisted around to see that Hammel was, indeed, just a few feet behind her. His eyes did not leave Legolas' as he bowed. "Farewell, my lord," he said, straightening. One of his hands briefly curled into a fist, and then unclenched.

Legolas bowed one last time. "Perhaps we shall see each other soon," he said, and with that he turned to his horse. Effortlessly he mounted, the last of his party to do so. The other Elves were all atop their steeds, managing them easily.

With numerous calls of farewell from the people, Prince Legolas of Ithilien departed from Rohan, and was not seen again for several more months. Gúthwyn watched him go, shivering despite herself. When his lithe form had disappeared from sight, she beckoned to Hammel and Haiweth, and the three of them retired to their chambers.

It did not escape her notice that the nightmares, in which Haldor and Borogor alternately caressed her and beat her, vanished within the week, and never plagued her again.

* * *

After Legolas left Edoras, things slowly began to settle back down. Gúthwyn fell back into her normal routine, and experienced a drastic decrease in the amount of nightmares that troubled her. She regained the weight that she had lost, as well as the color that had faded because of her nocturnal habits. Although she did not spend quite as much time on the training grounds as she used to, she found just as much pleasure in taking care of Elfwine, whom she was growing fiercely devoted to.

As Éomer and Lothíriel were kept busy by a spate of meetings that annually followed the harvest feast, in which the preparations for winter were discussed relentlessly, she began watching over her nephew, taking him around the city and showing him the various sights. He was appreciably awed by the horses, and significantly bemused by the sparkling fountain in the lower reaches of the main street.

The coming of November brought two things of importance. The first, and by far the most discussed amongst the Eorlingas, was the wedding of Lebryn to Gamling's niece Celewen, and their almost immediate announcement of her being pregnant with his child. Naturally, the gossip ran wild, as many (rightfully) guessed that they had been sneaking behind the stables long before they even gave a thought to marriage.

Secondly, and of greater meaning to Gúthwyn, was the arrival of two letters bearing the seal of Prince Faramir. They came on a chilly day, when the inhabitants of Edoras had awoken to find the ground white with frost. It would not be long until the first snowfall.

"My lord," the messenger said, and bowed before he handed the first envelope to Éomer. The king received it with a nod of thanks.

The second letter was given to Gúthwyn. "Thank you," she said automatically, but could not repress the shiver of excitement. Surely the parchment that Éomer held in his hands contained Éowyn's plea on her behalf. _In less than an hour,_ she thought triumphantly, _I will no longer have to worry about marriage._

She watched eagerly as Éomer opened his letter, ignoring the disdainful look from Lothíriel, but once her brother had finished all he said was, "She and Faramir will be visiting within the month."

Although it was not the news that Gúthwyn had expected, she nevertheless grinned and exclaimed, "That is excellent!"

"Aye," Éomer said happily. "She has not yet seen Elfwine."

The king's heir, currently residing on his mother's lap, yawned. Gúthwyn smiled at him, and then returned her attentions to her own letter. Éomer was a better actor than she thought, if he had concealed his displeasure so easily. Only somewhat mindful that there were numerous others in the hall with her, she opened the envelope and pulled out the parchment. Hastily she started reading it, scanning it for news that Éowyn had forbidden Éomer from making her seek a husband. Yet as her eyes moved further down the page, her face fell, and by the time she was done her good mood was effectively ruined.

_Gúthwyn,_

_As you will know by now, Faramir and I are traveling to Rohan soon. I am excited to meet Elfwine; I feel dreadful for not have doing so immediately upon his birth, but Faramir was busy with a series of meetings regarding the commerce between Emyn Arnen and Minas Tirith, so we were unable to leave our home sooner._

_It gladdens me to know that you and the children are well. I fear that I have missed much in their upbringing, and that there are many things you must update me on. If time permits it, I hope we will be able to take our horses out and go for a ride around the city. We have much to catch up on, and I am looking forward to doing so._

_Regarding your entreaty—sister, I am sorry, but I will not ask Éomer to stop searching for a suitable husband for you. I know this is not what you wish to hear, but our brother is right. We both want what is best for you, and even if you do not realize it, I am hard-pressed to find a better course you could take. This is not easy to write down on paper, so I will explain myself more fully when we see each other, but you deserve to have the happiness that Éomer and I enjoy. Do not think that I forget what happened to you in Mordor, for I shall never be able to rid myself of it. The Valar only know how you feel. But I believe that having a husband would help you recover, though you do not agree with me._

_I would have you dwell on these words, for someday you will see the sense in them. In the meantime, do not despair: Éomer would never have you married to a man that you hate. I promise you, whoever is chosen will do his best to ensure that you are happy and comfortable in your new life. Faramir has always been wonderful to me, and I know that your husband will treat you the same._

_Send my regards to Hammel and Haiweth. Until then,_

_Éowyn_

For a shocked moment, Gúthwyn stared down at the letter, hardly able to comprehend the fact that her sister had just abandoned her to her fate. _No intervention, not a word—nothing,_ she thought numbly, the hand holding the parchment beginning to tremble. In one swift motion, she clenched her fingers and crumpled it up, taking no notice when her fingernails cut into her palm and drew blood.

"What is it, sister?"

Éomer's concerned voice broke in on her fury, and as she turned to face him she saw that both he and Lothíriel were watching her with narrowed eyes. Gúthwyn could not find the words to answer him. She stood there, gripping the letter so tightly that her fist became white, until Éomer got up from his throne and approached her.

"Gúthwyn," he said, putting his hand over her own. Though she resisted him, he uncurled her fingers, taking the letter out of her grasp and smoothing it out so that he could read it.

When he was finished, he looked at her. "You asked Éowyn to convince me not to find you a husband?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn muttered, not seeing any point in denying it.

"We had an agreement—" Éomer began, his eyes widening.

"We had an _agreement?_" Gúthwyn repeated in disbelief. "Yes, I told you that I would search for love. But what was I supposed to say? 'No, brother, I never want to marry, and any man I find will have to live with the fact that his wife does not love him?' 'No, Éomer, and I cannot believe that you are asking such a thing of me when you _know_ about—about him?'"

"Gúthwyn, please, you are making more of this than—"

"Éomer!" she all but shrieked, trembling in fury. "For the last time, I do not want a husband! My vow meant nothing! _Why can you not see that?_"

A silence fell throughout the hall, and belatedly she realized that everyone in the throne room had been staring at them. Cobryn and the children were among this number.

"Listen," Éomer said, his voice deadly quiet. "This is not the place to be having this discussion. Tomorrow, I am calling my advisors, and we are going to have a meeting about this." Her mouth dropped, but he ignored her. "It will be in the afternoon, so you have no excuse to miss it. You _will_ be present for it, and we _will_ decide what is to become of this situation. Do you understand me?"

Gúthwyn's response was to toss the envelope of Éowyn's letter on the ground and storm away.


	56. Marriage Council

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifty-Six:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fifty-Six**

"Gúthwyn, wake up."

Éomund's daughter groaned, but otherwise made no attempt to obey the bothersome voice. She was only half awake; desperately, she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to recapture the sleep that had been so blissfully hers just moments ago.

"Gúthwyn!"

This time, the person that she now recognized to be Cobryn accompanied his words by rapping sharply on her head. Fully ready to murder whoever had given him his cane, she muttered, "What do you want?"

"It is time for the meeting," he said, and pushed away her hands when she attempted to ward him off.

As soon as her mind processed his announcement, her eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright. Her head narrowly missed banging into Cobryn's. "Already?" she cried, leaping out of the bed. She nearly tripped on the hem of her nightgown as she scrambled towards the dresser.

"Yes, already," Cobryn called over his shoulder as he walked towards her door. "I will wait outside."

Gúthwyn struggled to conceal the panic sweeping over her as she nodded. If Éomer remained as adamant as he had been yesterday, her future would be decided perhaps within hours. She would know the name of the man she was to marry, and thus the place where she would live out the rest of her days.

_What if it is not in Rohan?_ she wondered. Her fingers slipped on the ties of her nightgown. _What if I am sent to some faraway realm, never to see my people again save for once or twice a year?_

She did not wish to contemplate such a horrible concept. Yet it lingered in the corner of her mind as she undressed, and when she glanced into the mirror she could see fear written across her face.

_Do not be ridiculous,_ she told herself sternly, putting on a shift. _You are the sister of the king. You will not betray yourself in front of his councilors! Smile, and try not to look as if you are headed to your execution!_

It was then that someone knocked on the door. "My lady?"

Mildwen. Gúthwyn grinned faintly, having taken a liking to the maid over the years. Maybe through conversing with her, she would be able to keep her thoughts off of what was to come. "Yes?"

The door was pushed open a crack, and Mildwen peered cautiously in. Upon seeing Gúthwyn in a decent enough state so that she could attend her, she stepped inside and curtsied. "Would you like help choosing a dress?"

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said, looking despairingly at her wardrobe. The doors were flung open, revealing an assortment of her less formal gowns. The white one that she had worn to Éowyn's wedding was on the far left, half-hidden behind another dress, but still managed to catch her eye more than any of the others.

"My lady," Mildwen began timidly, "I heard a rumor that they are to decide who your husband will be today."

Gúthwyn sighed. "For once, the gossip is correct."

Mildwen's eyes widened, and for a moment she forgot all about finding the perfect gown. "Are you not excited?" she asked. "In less than a year's time, you could be married!"

Trying to ignore the painful twinge in her heart, Gúthwyn replied, "I have no desire to wed another. Unfortunately, it seems that such a sentiment is not enough to get me out of the unhappy procedure."

"But… but, my lady," Mildwen said, looking shocked, "surely there are many nobles who would desire to be your husband—maybe even princes!"

"If I love none of them, it makes no difference whether they are kings or peasants," Gúthwyn said heavily, and swallowed. Borogor's status in Mordor had likely been more than anything he would have attained at home; yet she would have married him in a heartbeat, regardless of whether his family was wealthy or not.

Mildwen opened her mouth to speak, clearly appalled that her lady should not find the idea of being sought after by charming royalty appealing, but Gúthwyn quickly said, "I should be getting dressed."

"Of course," Mildwen said with swift nod, and scurried over to the wardrobe. "What about your favorite, the green one?"

The gown was currently residing in her trunk, and usually reserved for more formal occasions, but Gúthwyn debated for a moment about whether or not to wear it.

"Or the blue one," Mildwen suggested, shaking her head at the array of grey dresses Éomund's daughter so frequently used. "It flatters your features, and it is not one of the more uncomfortable ones."

"Wear white."

The voice of Cobryn rang out over Mildwen's hemming and hawing. Gúthwyn swiveled around, unable to see him through the small crack in the door, but knowing that he was just out of sight. Her face paled at his idea.

"Why?" she returned, trying to keep her voice steady.

"May I come in?" was his response.

"Oh, my lady," Mildwen said anxiously, "you are only wearing an undergarment, it is not appropriate—"

"Yes, you may," Gúthwyn replied, knowing that her friend had seen her in far worse states of dress than in her shift.

Mildwen could not restrain a gasp as Cobryn entered the room, and her cheeks turned a flaming red color. She muttered something about arranging Gúthwyn's gowns and retreated to the wardrobe.

"Wear white," Cobryn repeated when he saw Gúthwyn.

"I do not want to," she answered, trembling a little at the thought.

"It will put Éomer in a good mood," Cobryn said, his eyes fixing on hers. "He will be more lenient. You want as much freedom as you can get in these discussions."

Gúthwyn considered his words. "Cobryn," she spoke with a sigh, "I do not want to do this… Why is Éomer so insistent on going through with it?"

"Aldor finally wore him down yesterday," Cobryn explained. "I was not present at the meeting—without my objections, there was no one to stand in his way. Éomer's conscience was eased by the fact that you promised him you would search for a husband. To find out that you had not spoken truthfully only angered him, and made him even more determined to do what he believes is right."

"And why does it matter? It is only his sister's happiness that is at stake!" she cried bitterly, forcing down the lump in her throat. "Only her future that he is deciding, simply because he thinks it is _right!_"

"Éomer loves you," Cobryn reminded her, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "I swear to you that, no matter what happens at the council, you will not be displeased with the results. I will make sure of it."

Gúthwyn bit her lip and was silent.

"My offer still stands," he said quietly, lowering his voice so that Mildwen could not hear. "We can end this now, if you wish it."

"I would not resign us to that fate," Gúthwyn whispered. "I cannot replace Feride, and while I love you as if you were my brother, you are not…" She trailed off. Only Faramir knew that the man to whom her heart was given had been called Borogor; it was a secret she guarded closely, wanting his name to be only hers to think of. To have others say it would be more than she could bear.

"So be it," Cobryn said, and nodded.

* * *

Five minutes later, Gúthwyn paused outside the door of Éomer's council chamber and took a deep breath. Her hands nervously fiddled with the sleeve of her white gown as Cobryn reached over and knocked three times.

"Good luck," he muttered to her. "I will do my best."

"Thank you," she responded, just as Éomer's voice called:

"Come in."

Cobryn paused only to smile reassuringly at her before turning the knob. He held the door open for her and she stepped inside, swallowing anxiously and surveying the scene. The room her brother's advisors met in when they wished to be undisturbed was sparsely furnished, and clearly not designed for comfort. A ring of chairs had been arranged about a table littered with charts; they were straight-backed and lacking cushions. The lighting was minimal, only adding to her edginess.

More intimidating than the chamber, however, were the people inside of it. All of Éomer's advisors—most of them close to three times her age—were now watching her, their eyes flickering over her like they would to determine the worth of a prized horse. Unlike with the guards and soldiers on the training grounds, they did not greet her with waves and cheerful speech. One or two of them nodded, but the rest were silent.

Gúthwyn glanced at the far end of the room, where Éomer and Lothíriel were seated side by side. The sight of the queen, looking at her as if she were two feet tall, did little to help her nerves. Éomer, however, smiled when he saw her; even more so when he noted that she was wearing the white dress he had purchased for her. She was suddenly glad that she had let Cobryn talk her into the outfit.

"Welcome, sister," he said, and gestured towards the empty chair on his right. "Please, sit."

Feeling as if she were five and about to be disciplined by Théoden, Gúthwyn approached her brother and gingerly lowered herself into the proffered seat. Cobryn settled himself not too far from her, directly across from Aldor. It gave her the impression that he was intending to fight the advisor as fiercely as he was able—this was the one issue that they disagreed on.

Éomer cleared his throat, and almost imperceptibly the councilors' eyes narrowed in concentration. "As you all know," her brother began, looking briefly at Gúthwyn, "we are here to discuss the prospects for Gúthwyn's marriage. It is our goal to agree on a suitable husband for her by the meeting's end. I know many of you"—he nodded at Aldor—"have given this much thought, and are eager to voice your opinions."

With that, he leaned back, as if to say to them _let the games begin._ Gúthwyn fidgeted slightly on her chair, unable to get comfortable.

"If I may, my lord," Aldor said then, and rose. Éomer inclined his head. "Forgive me for stating the obvious," the advisor began, making eye contact with each of his peers, "but the Lady Gúthwyn is most reluctant to even consider the idea of wedding another. It is to my knowledge that this stems from her love of this realm, which she appears to have no desire to leave. This in itself can be easily remedied: There are several fine men of the Mark who have availed of themselves to ask her for her hand in marriage, and would only need the slightest encouragement to try again. For instance, the two Marshals remain unwedded, as does Gamling, the Captain of the Guard."

"No," Gúthwyn said immediately. Éomer gave a sigh, as did many of the other advisors, but she would not be daunted. "I have already refused Elfhelm and Gamling. I shall not encourage them again. Erkenbrand has not spoken to me of marriage, but he will not, and I would never take him as my husband."

"Is that so?" Aldhelm inquired, not standing as Aldor had done, but remaining in his seat. "Perhaps the Marshal is merely waiting for the right time to ask you. And you could not do better, if you are considering men of the Mark."

"He is Tun's uncle," Gúthwyn said sharply. "I would not betray my champion or insult him for the world."

The tiniest sneer tugged at Lothíriel's lips.

"The boy has a wife," Aldor said dismissively. "I should think that he has quite forgotten your rejection. Nor would he have been the best match for you, in any case. He has not a high enough station, and he was always too forward in his attentions towards you."

"Excuse me," Gúthwyn snapped, glaring openly at the councilor. "I did not come here to listen to you discussing Tun's faults. If that is all you are going to do, then I shall leave. My champion is a wonderful man, and I will let no one say otherwise."

"It seems," Lothíriel began quietly, "that there are no men left in the Riddermark for Gúthwyn to take as a husband. Perhaps we should look elsewhere."

"Aye." One of the other advisors, by the name of Breowine, leaned forward eagerly. "There is no lack of nobility in Gondor. She is friends with King Elessar, and I am certain that it would not be too difficult to use that connection in order to secure a man of good standing."

"I would think that Aragorn has more important things to worry about than who I am to marry," Gúthwyn said bitingly. "Such as the ruling of the greatest kingdom in all of Middle-earth."

Many of the advisors muttered at this—the exception being Cobryn, who appeared as if he were tempted to laugh—but surprisingly, Lothíriel nodded. "My husband's sister is right. Elessar is a busy man, and we should not trouble him. If we are not to look to Gondor for marriage, there are always other realms."

There was a pause as the councilors ran through their heads a list of the other regions. Gúthwyn could only think of Bree, where Feride had been from, and Rivendell, from whence she had set out with the Fellowship. Now the Last Homely House was abandoned, perhaps with only a few Elves who had not heard the calling of the West. A shiver passed through her.

She lifted her gaze to Cobryn, and saw that he was watching Lothíriel's face carefully. The queen either did not notice his scrutiny, or paid no heed to it. Instead, she began smoothly, "I have heard from some old confidants that the ruler of Dorwinion has a son that is searching for a wife. Were Gúthwyn to be matched with him, there might be other benefits to be had from the union. Nowhere else do they make such wine—an alliance between our countries would make it easier to trade."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened as she tried to imagine how far away Dorwinion was. Other than the fact that it was considered by many to be the greatest source of wine, she knew next to nothing about the realm. It lay on the shores of the Sea of Rhûn, which was hundreds of leagues from her home. The region was directly north of Mordor, and was farther east than even where Barad-dûr had once been.

"Absolutely not," Éomer said, almost before his wife had even finished speaking. "That is too far away. I will not have my sister living out life in a place that she would have to navigate around Dagorlad and the Brown Lands in order to visit home. Not for all the wine in the world will that happen."

Lothíriel did not look abashed, but she bowed her head in submission and said quietly, "Then we should not even think of it."

Gúthwyn breathed a sigh of relief, but almost immediately Aldor remarked, "We are forgetting Dol Amroth."

There was a sudden spate of whispering amongst the advisors, but just as quickly it died away. Gúthwyn felt Cobryn's gaze on her. She knew what was going through his mind: Her correspondence with Prince Elphir.

"Aye," Éomer said, his eyes widening. Beside him, Lothíriel's were narrowed dangerously, but no one seemed to notice. "Sister, what say you? It is well known that you write frequently to Prince Elphir—almost as much as you do Éowyn."

"We are friends," Gúthwyn allowed, feeling her heart starting to race.

"The prince stands to inherit all of Dol Amroth," Aldor mused, lacing his fingertips together. "One could hardly find a better match for the Lady Gúthwyn."

"And our ties to Prince Imrahil are strong, thanks to our queen," Aldhelm added, with a respectful nod towards Lothíriel.

"Elphir has certainly paid enough attention to her," Breowine commented, looking pointedly at Gúthwyn. "One might have said that during his visits he was courting her."

"My brother is not so bold as that," Lothíriel answered tightly. Gúthwyn noticed that her fingers were white, while they had all the appearance of resting lightly on the arms of her chair. When she next exchanged glances with Cobryn, she could tell that he had seen the queen's manner also.

"Nevertheless," Aldhelm replied with a wave of his hand, "it cannot be denied that he took a liking to her. I have always thought that a double alliance with Dol Amroth would strengthen our kingdom."

"As have I," Aldor agreed. He raised his eyebrows at Cobryn. "We once discussed this, did we not?"

"We did," Cobryn confirmed irritably. "But perhaps Gúthwyn should be consulted, before you send envoys to Prince Imrahil. Ultimately, it must be with her good will that we act. I would hope that you were planning on seeking it in the near future."

Gúthwyn straightened, and turned to Éomer with panicked eyes. "You would not send me to the Sea if I did not wish it, brother, would you?"

"Of course not," Éomer said gently, and laid a firm hand on her own. It easily covered hers. She found herself comforted by its warmth, and wondered if Elphir would hold her in a similar way, should they marry. "But would you want us to press for a match between you and Elphir?"

Gúthwyn fell silent. _Who else will they suggest if I refuse him?_ she wondered. Elphir was certainly courteous to her, and they never lacked for conversation or jest. He was always ready with a compliment on hand for her; he had danced with her, gone on rides with her, and dueled with her. He had not so much as widened his eyes at the sight of the children, and indeed had one of his own whom she knew she could cherish as if he were her son. But did she want to leave her people, her land, her home, her brother? The training grounds, little Elfwine, Hildeth, Mildwen? She would be so far from both of her siblings…

"Gúthwyn?"

She looked at Éomer, even as she made a noise of inquiry trying to imagine what it would be like to live without him.

"Are you feeling well?"

He was asking her to decide her future right here, right now? In less than five minutes, she was to determine her fate?

"I-I need some time," she stuttered, taking a deep breath. Her mind was afire. What should she do?

_Would Borogor like Elphir?_ she asked herself. _Since I have to choose someone, will he be angry with me?_

And what of Elphir himself? Would he even want her as a wife? If he did, how would he treat her? Would he always be kind to Hammel and Haiweth? Would he see that they were properly educated, and love them as she would love Alphros? Would he let her visit Éomer and Éowyn often? Would he hold her at night when she awoke from a bad dream? Would he want to make love to her often? Would he simply do so until she had given him an heir? Would he realize that she was terrified of lying beneath him? Would he not begrudge her that she had loved another? Would she even tell him all of her secrets, or would he turn a deaf ear to her time in Mordor?

_What if I marry Cobryn?_ she questioned silently. _It would not be the end of the world—he certainly would not want to touch me like a lover would. Our friendship would continue, the only difference being that he would sleep with me. He is already a father enough to Hammel, and I would trust him with my life._

And what of Elfhelm or Gamling? Would it be so bad if she encouraged them once more? She was close to both of them, and by becoming one of their wives she would ensure the rest of her life's stay in Rohan. She would never have to be parted from her home, from the people she had grown to love as fiercely as if they were her own subjects. She would grow old in a realm that she had longed for all the seven years in which she was a captive, and never have to leave it.

So many possibilities were at her fingertips… and none of them the one that she truly wanted. Borogor was dead, never to marry her. She would never bear his children—a strong boy, a beautiful girl—and they would never have a home of their own. Their "home" had been their tent, a place in which he could only comfort her against what Haldor had done, a place in which he could only hold her hair away from her face as she vomited. That tent was now long gone, with just her, Dîrbenn, and the children to remember it.

Gúthwyn shivered, and looked at the advisors. They were all watching her intently, waiting for the slightest sign of a yea or nay. She felt as if she had been laid bare and was being picked apart by vultures, all preying upon her for their own gain.

The anxiety must have shown itself clearly in her face, as Cobryn said then, "For the Valar's sake, stop staring at her as if you can will her to decide! Let her be!"

Most of the councilors coughed, a precursor to fussing with their tunics and aimlessly gazing at the barren walls. The only person now willing to look at her was Cobryn. He had resumed examining his boots, but when he felt her eyes on him he lifted his gaze. With the smallest tilt of his head, he gave a silent inquiry. Gúthwyn knew that she had only to nod, and he would leap to her defense. He would successfully argue her way out of a marriage with Elphir. He would turn the discussions towards any man that she wished, or any man that _he_ thought would be the best choice for her—and she knew that she could trust his judgment.

One nod of the head, and she would not marry Elphir.

Gúthwyn sighed. _And so I seal my fate,_ she thought.

She shook her head.

The action was so imperceptible that only Cobryn noted it. He looked surprised for a moment, and then gave a small smile. She returned it sadly, knowing that there was no going back. Straightening, she turned to Éomer. He had removed his hand from hers and was now looking at her, waiting patiently for an answer. Over his shoulder, she could see Lothíriel watching her like a hawk, her eyes mere slits.

If she had not been an enemy of the queen now, she certainly would be. Meeting Éomer's eyes—and only Éomer's—she said, loudly and clearly, "If the Prince Elphir is interested in being my husband, then I shall not object. I will accept his offer if it is made."

She had to hand it to herself, Gúthwyn thought as relieved exclamations broke out amongst the advisors and a smile spread over Éomer's face. She was taking her own decision well. As a matter of fact, she could not feel anything now. Numbness was sweeping over her, from her head to her toes, clutching her heart in its grasp. A faint buzzing filled her mind.

Aldor was saying something, but she could not hear it. When Éomer cried, "The Valar be praised!" she found herself standing so that he could envelop her into a bone-crushing embrace. Yet though he must have been squeezing the very air out of her lungs, she hardly noticed. Instead, she smiled at her brother's delight, and then nodded as the councilors all wished her the best of luck. She listened with half an ear as they discussed how to best go about arranging the alliance, and did not even feel nauseous as it was decided to send a letter out the following morning.

And then the advisors were filing out of the chamber, each of them satisfied that the meeting had gone extraordinarily well, and she was following Éomer into the hall. He drew close to her, cupped her chin in his, and kissed her on the brow. "Thank you, sister," he murmured. "I swear to you, you will not be unhappy with him as your husband."

She nodded.

"You should write to Éowyn," Éomer continued, "and tell her the good news. There are still a few hours left until dinner."

Again, she nodded. That seemed to be enough for him, and with that he let go of her and slipped his arm around Lothíriel's waist. He whispered something in her ear and she smiled. The two of them did not return to the great hall, but instead went into their room. Gúthwyn was left standing there, trying to muster the strength to move.

"Gúthwyn." She felt a hand on her shoulder and stiffened, but it was only Cobryn. "Are you all right?"

"What did I just do?" she whispered suddenly, turning to face him with wide eyes. "What did I just do?"

"You agreed to marry Prince Elphir of Dol Amroth," he replied.

"By the Valar," she choked out, and stumbled against him. Just in time he caught her, steadying her with his arms and holding her tightly so that she could not fall. "What was I thinking?"

"You look awful," he said, addressing her as only he could. "Come, you need fresh air. Start walking."

In a daze, she did as he told her, unable to feel her legs. They wobbled beneath her as she somehow made her way down the passage and into the throne room, and threatened to give out when Cobryn left her side to open the door for her.

"What was I thinking?" she asked again, her voice rising to a cry as she staggered outside. The two guards looked concernedly at her.

"Careful," Cobryn hissed, gripping her arm. "Say nothing until my ears are the only ones to hear it."

She could barely understand a word he was saying, never mind follow his instructions, but she managed to keep herself conscious as he steered her around the Golden Hall. They were at the very clearing she had refused Tun at, the place where she had realized that she loved her champion but could not marry him. And now, if things went well for her brother, she would be betrothed to a prince of Dol Amroth.

"What have I done?" Gúthwyn cried when they were hidden from the view of the people. "I cannot marry, I am too young, I was never trained to be a princess—by the Valar, I am going to be a princess…"

She collapsed onto the soft grass and buried her face in her hands. Cobryn knelt down beside her.

"Things may not work out," he said, but without much conviction in his voice.

"They will!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, her voice hysterical. She felt as if she would faint. Her head was light; there was a numb tingling in her limbs. "And I will go to the Sea! I… I have never seen it before! I know none of the people!"

"It is not Elphir that is troubling you," Cobryn said softly.

Shaking, she met his eyes. "I will be married to another man," she responded hoarsely. "Instead of the one I love."

"Would that we all could marry whom we loved," Cobryn answered quietly. "The world would be a happier place for it."

Miserably, she nodded. He let her lean on him, and not a word did she say as her weight grew heavier. "I do not feel well," she whispered, recognizing the familiar coils of nausea within her stomach.

"You are in shock," he said. "Do not worry… Elphir will treat you well, if the marriage goes through. You made the best choice."

"I should never have had to make it in the first place," she murmured, and closed her eyes.

Moments later, they were wet with tears.


	57. Letters and Lies

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifty-Seven:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fifty-Seven**

Gúthwyn spent the rest of the day wandering around in shock, barely able to comprehend what she had just done. By the time she was summoned for dinner, she felt so ill that she thought she would faint if she attended the meal, and sent word to Éomer that she was going to bed early. He came to her chambers to ask concernedly about her well being, but she told him that she had a pounding headache—which was not far from the truth. He attributed it to having been forced to listen to his advisors for so long, and joked that she would have to become used to politics if she was to be Elphir's wife.

Yet when the most oblivious man that she had ever known left her room, Gúthwyn remained awake for hours afterwards. She would have to wait for nearly a month until a reply came from Dol Amroth, which would only confirm whether or not Éomer and Imrahil would enter negotiations to determine suitable terms for her marriage. If things went well—for them, at least—she would be the princess of Dol Amroth before the harvest feast next year.

Cobryn had told her the nature of the letter which would be sent. It would contain tidings of the realm, as well as an innocent inquiry as to whether Prince Elphir was considering marriage. In addition, it would be noted that Éomer's sister was seeking a husband, although she had not seriously been courted by any one man. This was a lie, and her stomach twisted as she thought of Tun, who would be glossed over as if he had only idly fancied her; but it was what the advisors would inevitably write.

Upon receiving this letter, Prince Imrahil would know immediately the intent behind it. He would then discuss the matter with his own councilors and Elphir. If they decided that such an alliance was agreeable, and worth pursuing, a reply would be sent back, stating that Prince Elphir was also searching for a wife—and would it not be beneficial for him to wed the sister of such a close friend?

Then negotiations would ensue. Once the approval of both parties had been reached, it was only a matter of time before the leaders turned their attentions to things such as Gúthwyn's dowry, and strengthening the already firm ties between the realms. Gúthwyn herself would not be able to attend these meetings, but Cobryn would, and she was sure to be informed of all that was occurring behind the closed doors.

And assuming nothing went wrong, she would soon be sent off to the Sea, where she would become the princess of a people whom she had never seen, and where she was so far from both Éowyn and Éomer that she would be lucky to see them once a year. She would be wedded to a man she did not love; and it was all the worse because she admired and respected him. She would be lying to him every minute of their marriage, pretending that she liked his kisses and that she did not wish him to be someone else. Meanwhile, Borogor's body would be decaying into a skeleton, resembling nothing of the man her heart was bound to.

It came as no surprise to Gúthwyn that, towards the middle of the night, she suddenly lurched out of bed and threw up the entire contents of her stomach.

Afterwards, she wiped her mouth with a washcloth and felt as if she had also regurgitated her soul. Having not even the strength to cry, she crawled back into bed and drew the covers over her, shivering beneath them. Tomorrow, she would have to tell Hammel and Haiweth—if Cobryn had not already.

_By the Valar,_ she thought suddenly, clapping her hand to her forehead. _What about Aldeth?_

If she were to take the children to the Sea with her, Hammel would be separated from the girl. Gúthwyn _knew_, despite the fact that he had stubbornly denied anything more than a vague attraction, that he loved the blacksmith's daughter. And he was too young to do anything about it; thus, if he left Rohan, by the time he returned it would probably be too late. She would likely have agreed to marry another.

But what could she do about it? She had already given her consent to a union with Elphir, if the prince desired it as well. It had been dispensed in what must have been a fit of madness, yes, but it was her word all the same.And Hammel had no other guardian—he would have to travel with her to Dol Amroth.

_What about Cobryn?_ Gúthwyn thought then. _Perhaps Hammel could stay with him…_

All of a sudden, tears sprung into her eyes. _I will have to leave Cobryn,_ she thought wildly, clutching the blankets so tightly that her hands became as white as the sheets. _After all of these years… what will I do without him?_

And how could she separate Haiweth from her brother? The girl was only nine; how could she be taken away from everything was so familiar to her?

_How can I?_ Gúthwyn wondered miserably. If she left the children, a part of her would be gone. She would end up losing both them and Borogor, as well as her home and her family. The only things she had left to call her own would be the few possessions she had, which were worth nothing compared to Hammel and Haiweth.

As the full desperation of her predicament settled over her, Gúthwyn began crying. Miserable howls escaped her, none of which were heard outside her walls. The pillow she had stuffed her face in turned wet, and she was dangerously close to suffocating, but she did not dare lift her head. The pain in her heart was greater than anything she had endured before; not even in the worst aftermaths of her nightmares had the knot inside of her tightened so much.

When she at last fell asleep, exhausted from sobbing, the tears were still drying on her cheeks.

* * *

As usual, it was noon when Gúthwyn emerged from her chambers. She had taken pains to make her appearance normal; rigorous scrubbing in the washbasin had made her eyes less red, and the smallest bit of powder had made her cheeks brighter. Instead of wearing a grey dress, she had even deigned to put on something brown. It was hardly something cheery, but it was different, and would distract her brother from her mood.

Yet her ruse was not lost on Cobryn. She sat beside him for lunch, having no desire to dine with Éomer. He took one glance at her and said, "You look terrible."

"Thank you," she muttered, staring at the wooden surface of the table. Her fingers absently traced some of the dark lines.

"Your eyes are red," he remarked shrewdly.

"It is nothing," Gúthwyn snapped, and instantly regretted her tone. "I am sorry," she said with a sigh. "I did not get much sleep last night."

"Marriage to him will not be so bad," Cobryn replied quietly.

Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat, and as she stared down at her bowl of uneaten stew she suddenly would have given anything in the world for him not to have said that.

"Elphir does care about you," her friend continued, unaware that she was silently begging him to stop. "He would make sure that you are comfortable in Dol Amroth. The people have no reason to hate you. And you will still be able to see your siblings."

_Please, Cobryn, go no further!_ she thought, feeling as if she were about to burst into tears again.

"Listen," he said, and laid a hand on her arm. "You could have done much worse."

It was too much. She stood up abruptly, yanking herself away from him. "Does it mean nothing to you," she whispered, struggling to keep her eyes from blurring, "that I will have to leave _everything?_"

"I am trying to look at this realistically—"

"That is not what I want you to do!" she exclaimed, her raised voice drawing a concerned look from Éomer.

Cobryn's gaze fixed hers. "Then what do you want me to do?"

"I-I… I do not know," Gúthwyn said, trying to shrug and feeling as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders. It was now a full-out war to stop herself from sobbing right then and there. "Maybe… Maybe just p-provide a shoulder to cry on?"

She saw his eyes widen, but before he could speak she whirled away, mortified that she had said such a foolish thing to him. Her face was burning in humiliation as she strode to the doors and pushed at them until they yielded. When she burst out into the bright sunshine, doing its best to portray the opposite of her mood, she made her way down the stairs and into the throng of people going about their business.

Perhaps surrounding herself with the citizens was a cure, for she felt the tears in her eyes drying, and her lips were soon stretched into a smile. It was fake, and reflected nothing of her current disposition, but it was there nevertheless. She returned the greetings from various soldiers and workers; none of them noticed that there was no sparkle in her eyes, nor that her steps and heart were heavy.

Gúthwyn felt all the worse for what she had done when she neared the well and saw Hammel talking to Aldeth. Immediately she drew back so that they would not see her, but even from a distance it was clear that Hammel's attention was fixed on the blacksmith's daughter as if there were no other person in the world. This quiet devotion went unmarked by Aldeth, who was as pleasant as always, listening attentively to whatever Hammel was saying as she lifted the bucket from the well's depths.

When the two children parted, Hammel was alone as he walked up the street. A faint smile was on his face, and as he came closer Gúthwyn could hear him whistling. A sharp pang of regret drove itself through her.

"Hammel," she called out, and watched as he halted and saw her. He stopped whistling, but his expression was still distinctly pleased as he approached her.

"Yes?" he inquired.

"We need to talk," Gúthwyn said quietly.

"About?"

Gúthwyn sighed. "Come with me."

The boy obviously noted that something was amiss, but he spoke naught of it as she led him to the stairs of Meduseld. When they had sat down, he merely looked at her, waiting for her to begin.

"Did Cobryn talk to you about the meeting we were at yesterday?" she questioned.

He raised an eyebrow. "No."

"It was to settle on who I would marry," Gúthwyn explained.

Hammel stiffened, and asked sharply, "What happened?"

"Éomer left most of the decision to me," Gúthwyn said with a sigh. "If the negotiations work out, within a year I should be the wife of Prince Elphir."

"Of Dol Amroth?" Hammel demanded, looking horror-struck.

"Hammel, I am sorry," she murmured.

"You said Éomer gave you a choice!"

"He gave me a choice, but that does not mean I had much of one," Gúthwyn replied. "Lothíriel would have had me sent to Dorwinion; other than that, who was left?"

"Elfhelm," Hammel said immediately. "Gamling. Any of the unmarried guards. You could not pick one of them?"

"Hammel, calm yourself," Gúthwyn said, though not unkindly. "They have already asked me for my hand, and I have already refused them. It would not be right of me to pursue them now, simply because Éomer wants me to find a husband and there are no better prospects."

The look that he gave her clearly said _Borogor_, but she pretended to take no notice of it.

"Why not Cobryn?"

She started at this, and asked, "Why would you say that?"

"Because then you would not have to leave," Hammel responded. "And you are both good friends."

"That is not the same as loving each other."

"But you do."

Gúthwyn was quelled at this. She did love Cobryn as if he was her brother—yet that was all the more reason not to marry him.

"One does not wed someone they consider a family member," she told Hammel, and saw him scowl.

"Then how can you marry for love, if the person you love is—"

"Do not dare finish that sentence," Gúthwyn hissed, her voice deadly quiet.

"Sorry," Hammel muttered, looking apologetic. For a time, neither of them spoke, and he fiddled with the hem of his shirt. At last he burst out, "Why Elphir?"

Gúthwyn thought for a moment before answering. "Because he will take care of me, and I like him enough."

"But he is so far away," Hammel pointed out. "I do not want to leave."

"Neither do I," Gúthwyn whispered. "Yet it seems certain that I will."

"What about Haiweth?" the boy pressed, his voice rising. "What about all of her friends? Are you going to take her away from them?"

"Hammel—"

"And what about Aldeth?" he snarled.

Almost immediately, his face turned white, and he stared down at his lap.

"Hammel," Gúthwyn said softly, putting an arm around him. He flinched. "If you desire to remain here, then I will ask Cobryn if he can watch over you in my absence. Haiweth may choose to stay or go; I will put no pressure on her."

He stared at her. To her surprise, a wry smile was on his face as he shook his head. "Cobryn will go with you to Dol Amroth."

Gúthwyn's eyes narrowed, and her breath caught in her throat. "What makes you say that?" she asked, hardly daring to consider the idea.

"Because when Éomer first spoke of marriage, he told me that he would accompany you wherever you went, if you had to leave Rohan."

Gúthwyn thought this over, and in spite of herself smiled. It sounded exactly like something Cobryn would say.

"So that means," Hammel finished somberly, "that Haiweth and I have no choice but to go with you."

"Oh, Hammel," Gúthwyn said, hugging him for the first time in what felt like months. "I am sorry this had to happen."

"That does not change the fact that it did," he retorted, and pulled himself out of her arms. As he hurried down the steps, he turned back only once. She was still gaping at him as he said, "If you had just chosen Cobryn, none of this would have happened."

With that, he turned away, and soon his small figure disappeared into the crowd. For a long time Gúthwyn stared after him, wondering if this was not the beginning of a rift between her and the child she had sacrificed everything for.

* * *

Only two weeks later, all of Gúthwyn's hopes that Prince Elphir might not be interested in marriage were utterly dashed. She had been eating lunch with Éomer and Lothíriel when a messenger entered the Golden Hall, declaring that he had a message for King Éomer of Rohan from Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.

Éomer exchanged an astonished look with Gúthwyn before rising to his feet. "Surely our letter has not reached him yet?" he muttered under his breath.

"My lord," the messenger murmured, bowing. He handed the envelope to Éomer, and then glanced at Gúthwyn and Lothíriel. Gúthwyn found that she could not breathe. _Please, let him say no,_ she prayed, momentarily squeezing her eyes shut. _Please, please…_

"Gúthwyn!"

Éomund's daughter started at the sharp call, and then realized that Lothíriel was trying to get her attention. Confused, she looked around. Finally, she saw that the messenger was holding out to her a folded piece of parchment. It bore the seal of Dol Amroth.

"Th-Thank you," she said nervously, and with a shaking hand accepted it. Instantly, she recognized the handwriting to be Elphir's. A dry sensation formed in her mouth. As the messenger was given a place to sit and some food before he returned to his horse, she stared down at the envelope, wondering whether or not she wanted to open it.

All of a sudden, Éomer began laughing. She jumped at the noise, but when he turned to face her she felt as if his gaze had pinned her to the bench.

"Look at this!" he cried triumphantly, and thrust the letter in front of her. Numbly she accepted it, feeling as if the worst had come.

_Éomer,_

_My friend, it has been far too long since we have spoken to each other. I hope all is well in your realm—my daughter not the least, and Elfwine. It is a shame that I have not seen my own grandchild yet; with your leave, I intend to visit sometime next year, for I would not want Lothíriel to think that we have forgotten her! Nay, we miss her deeply, though we are equally confident that you are treating her excellently._

_However, although I am certainly concerned for my daughter's well being, I have to admit that I have other reasons for writing this. As you are aware, my eldest son Elphir stands to inherit the whole of Dol Amroth when I pass away. He is prepared to take on the duties of being a ruler, and I do not doubt that he will perform them admirably. Yet there is one thing that he does not have, and that is a wife._

_I could take many—and far vaguer—words in which to phrase this, but we are close enough friends for such protocol to be rendered unnecessary, and even ridiculous. It is the advice of my council that Elphir seek for a marriage with your sister, the Lady Gúthwyn. Such reasons for doing so are obvious: Dol Amroth and Rohan are already united, and there is nothing to lose from the union on either side._

_Elphir has already admitted to being quite taken with your sister from their first meeting, and although he had some worries about whether or not she returned his feelings, he needs little encouragement to pursue the idea. Here I might add my opinion before you grow angry with either of us, for I know that you are rightfully protective of your younger sisters._

_It seems to me that, on the two occasions in which I had the opportunity to meet the Lady Gúthwyn, she has represented herself as a woman of excellent character and disposition. Her children are wonderfully behaved, and would be a delight to have in Dol Amroth. There have been far too few of late, and I do believe that Alphros is longing for companions._

_Your sister I hold in high esteem, and I hope you will agree with me in that it would be most wise to arrange for a marriage between her and Elphir—assuming, of course, that she deems the idea agreeable, and that she is not yet betrothed to another. When you last wrote to me, she was not; I hope that remains unchanged. With some luck, I hope to be able to welcome another daughter into my home by next year's end._

_Imrahil_

The knot in Gúthwyn's stomach tightened so painfully as she read this that for a moment she thought she would throw up. For several seconds, she stared blankly at the firm script of Prince Imrahil. This was proof that life as she knew it was over, that her world would never be the same again.

"May I see it?"

Lothíriel's inquiry broke in on her thoughts, and numbly Gúthwyn gave her the letter. Snug in his mother's arms, Elfwine attempted to grab it, but she held it out of his reach.

"Well, sister?"

Gúthwyn turned to see Éomer beaming down at her. An answer—surely there was something decent she could say.

"I am surprised," was all she could manage.

Laughing, Éomer replied, "Imagine the coincidence! We must have written our letters at the same time."

"So," Gúthwyn began carefully, resisting the urge to slowly tear Elphir's envelope into shreds, "what are you to do next?"

"I will write back to him," Éomer said, grinning with all of the enthusiasm that she did not feel. "And then, we shall begin the negotiations."

"That is wonderful," Gúthwyn answered automatically, taking a deep breath. In order to keep herself from looking at her brother, she glanced at Elfwine. As usual, he had grabbed a fistful of Lothíriel's hair. Yet this time, she was making no move to brush him away. Her face was impassive as she read the letter, but when she set it down and met Gúthwyn's gaze her eyes flashed dangerously.

Éomer noticed nothing of this. "Well, it is no use writing to Éowyn now," he commented. "She will be here in another week or two, and we can tell her then."

"This is exciting," Lothíriel remarked quietly. Her eyes were cold as they fixed on Gúthwyn. "I suppose I will welcome you into my family… a second time."

"Yes," Éomer chuckled. "Now we shall be united twice over."

"That is, assuming things work out," Lothíriel said.

Éomer shrugged. "I hope they will." With a broad grin, he patted Gúthwyn on the shoulder. "Good luck, baby sister."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn whispered, and swallowed. Clutching Elphir's letter tightly, she stood up and said, "Excuse me for a moment."

"We will have dinner soon," Éomer said, with a pointed glance at her figure.

"I know," Gúthwyn muttered. For good measure, she gave a wobbling curtsy before straightening and all but running out of the hall.

_I will be a wife,_ she thought dazedly as she stumbled into her chambers. _I will be a princess of Dol Amroth, and share Elphir's bed._

She almost did not know which prospect was more alarming. Sitting down at her desk and trying to open Elphir's letter with trembling hands, she realized with alarm that she had had no training in the ruling of a kingdom. It was always the advisors to whom she had left the running of the realm while her brother was away, and it seemed to work out fine. But now she would have to sit at Elphir's side, at the very least knowing what his councilors were discussing.

And then at night… Gúthwyn shuddered as she pulled the parchment out of its envelope. Elphir might not want an heir from her, as he already had Alphros, but that did not change the fact that making love to him would be considered one of her wifely duties. _How often will he want to do it?_ she asked herself fearfully, unfolding the letter. _How often will I have to lie beneath him?_

Miserably, she looked down at Elphir's handwriting, a sight she had once been delighted to see; now, she dreaded it.

_My lady Gúthwyn,_

_I was discouraged against writing this to you until we received a reply from your brother, but I confess myself too eager to wait. I pray you do not think me too bold for this discretion, for that is not the effect I desire. As you will have heard, my father is hoping to organize with your brother a marriage between the two of us._

_Though it may seem presumptuous on my part, I do not think it unreasonable to say that I have admired you from the moment we met. While you yourself admitted to me a lack of education in the ways of the court, I found you all the more agreeable for it. At the risk of sounding arrogant, most women I have met seem only concerned with the fact that someday I will inherit my father's realm. Yet you were not; and that, to me, made you even more likeable. (Not to mention your prowess on the field!)_

_Gúthwyn, we have been friends for some time now. Long have I read your letters and imagined you writing them, a smile on my face as I learned about the latest expeditions of Hammel and Haiweth. It seems to me that you did not find our correspondence wearisome, as you always responded promptly, and your words showed no sign of annoyance. Am I perhaps unwise to think that we might grow to be more than friends?_

_Rest assured that you would lack for nothing in Dol Amroth, should you choose to become my wife—as I fervently wish you will. Nor would Hammel and Haiweth. Alphros would be delighted to see them more often, as would I. The Sea is not so over-awing as everyone makes it; I think you would find it quite enchanting, as it is a beautiful sight on all occasions._

_As for how you would be treated, you will find that Dol Amroth is already used to the idea of a female leader, as Lothíriel ruled our people during the War of the Ring when my father, my brothers, and I were fighting at Minas Tirith. You would have a great deal of freedom to do whatever you wanted, including the furthering of your talent with a blade. And, on a side note, I would have no expectations of you learning to sew, for the Valar know that we have enough seamstresses in our city._

_It may be that, for all of my hopes, you are already betrothed to another. If that is so, then forgive me for being so forward. I wish you good luck and all the contentment in the world, should your heart belong to a different man. In time, mayhap, you can overlook my sentiments, and will not find it too much of an inconvenience to continue our correspondence. It has been a great pleasure of mine to write to you._

_Yet if you are not otherwise engaged—then I pray that you will consider my offer. You have only to say the word, and I shall pursue a union between the two of us with my heart set on the right outcome. There is nothing more I desire at the moment than to take you as my wife. I will do my best to ensure your happiness, and that of Hammel and Haiweth's. You will have all the freedom you could ever want, as well as the opportunity to visit your family whenever you wished. I would love you as I did Alphros' mother, asking only for your love in return._

_I beg of you to at least think of my request, and discuss it with your brother. Please write to me if you have any concerns._

_Sincerely, Elphir_

"By the Valar," Gúthwyn murmured to herself, allowing the letter to slip out of her hands. It fell to the surface of her desk, still too close for comfort. She felt tears welling up inside of her. Elphir was prepared to give so much to her, and in return wanted the one thing that she could not give him.

Struggling not to cry, she hunched over the desk and pressed her hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut as she did so. Despite all her efforts, her shoulders were soon shaking with all of the tears that had been bottled up within her. There was nothing that she could do to stop this marriage. It was in the hands of her brother, who was determined to see it through, and Prince Imrahil, who had suggested it in the first place.

"You could at least have the decency to look somewhat happy about your fortune," a voice snapped from the doorway.

Gúthwyn jumped, and whirled around to see Lothíriel standing there, openly glaring at her husband's sister. Words failed her, and she could only gape at the queen, utterly incapable of saying anything in her defense.

"I know not what my brother sees in you, for it is certainly hidden from my view, but he deserves the best of wives," Lothíriel said, her tone as icy as the River Snowbourn in the throes of winter. "And you cannot even thank Éomer for suggesting the alliance?"

"Lothíriel," Gúthwyn began, taking a deep breath, "it is not Elphir—"

"Oh, indeed?" Lothíriel laughed sardonically, her eyes never once leaving Gúthwyn's. "Then what is it? Will you miss your home? Will you miss having the adoration of the people? Will you miss having dozens of men at your beck and call, ready to service you whenever you so much as smile?"

Gúthwyn's mouth fell open. "What are you talking about?" she at last cried, getting to her feet.

"Do not think I am foolish," Lothíriel snarled. "I have seen you with them. I know you are no maiden."

The words slapped at Gúthwyn with the force of a battering ram. She staggered back, feeling sick, and stared in horror at the queen. _"You are ready now!" Haldor hissed, his hot breath suffocating her and his hands pulling at her leggings. "Struggle, scream, or cry and I will kill the children myself, do you understand?" She could not escape; she was pinned helplessly beneath him as he entered her… There was movement above her, around her, and within her as all was turning black…_

She thought she would vomit. One hand clamped over her mouth, the other on her stomach. It was impossible to breathe. Her face was growing hot, as if Haldor was on top of her again.

"You do not deny it?" Lothíriel asked, disgust reflected in each syllable that she spat out. "That is just as well, for I heard you speak of it to Éomer. Was it Cobryn?"

Gúthwyn could only shake her head.

Lothíriel's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Then you are even more of a whore than I thought."

"I am not—" Gúthwyn finally managed, but the queen cut her off.

"Do not worry; you shall hear no word of this passing through _my_ lips," Lothíriel said, folding her arms across her chest. She stepped closer to Gúthwyn, until only a few feet separated them. Lowering her voice, she hissed, "I will not see my brother humiliated for your mistakes, do you understand me? He knows nothing of what you have done, but it will be all too evident on your wedding night that you are no virgin. If I so much as hear a _whisper_ that you are turning to your old ways in Dol Amroth, I will make your life miserable!"

"W-Why did you come here?" Gúthwyn asked, nearly choking on self-loathing.

A strange look came into Lothíriel's eyes. "Éomer was growing worried about his baby sister," she said, putting the briefest emphasis of a sneer upon his nickname for Gúthwyn. "Dinner is ready."

Gúthwyn drew back, but before she could prepare herself for what would be a trying meal Lothíriel reached forward and grabbed her by the arm. "Remember my words," she demanded. "I expect my brother to be loved the way he deserves to be, and not in the way a whore treats one of her many!"

With a sudden surge of energy, Gúthwyn wrenched herself away, and at the same time pushed Lothíriel several feet back from her. The queen stumbled, unable to retain her hold. Her eyes widened as she beheld Éomund's daughter.

"Do not order me as if I were your slave," Gúthwyn breathed, her arms trembling as she clenched her hands into fists. "You have no idea of that which you speak!"

Her anger was so great that she could think of nothing to say afterwards. For a long time she stared at the queen, torn between the urge to strike her and the fear of Éomer discovering her hatred for his wife. Finally she growled, "Get out."

Lothíriel made no move to.

"I said, get out!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, and bore down upon the queen. Immediately Lothíriel backed up, her face paling. Éomund's daughter could only begin to realize how wild she looked in that moment, with her eyes blazing and her cheeks reddening in fury. All she marked was that the other woman swiftly exited, slamming the door behind her.

As her husband's sister rushed for the chamber pot and began vomiting, Lothíriel took a deep breath to compose herself. _Do not worry about Elphir's well-being,_ she thought sternly. _If worse comes to worse…_

When she sat down at the table, taking little Elfwine out of the king's arms, Éomer inquired, "What of Gúthwyn?"

"She needed a few minutes to herself," Lothíriel said, and kissed her son on the brow.


	58. Folding Clothes

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifty-Eight:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fifty-Eight**

_My lord Elphir,_

_Thank you for your letter. I was both surprised and flattered to discover that you think so highly of me. You need not worry; it was neither too bold nor too forward. I thought it was very kind that you should write to me, even if your father discouraged you against doing so._

_As for the answer to your offer, it is already given, and I am sure that by the time this arrives, Éomer and Prince Imrahil will be well into negotiations—namely, the date of our wedding. I cannot put to paper my happiness, so please be confident that I am looking forward to when I can set my hand in yours. I will not go so far as to say that this is definite, for anything could happen in a year, but I pray that all will go well._

_I shall not discuss the subject much more, for fear of jinxing it. Regarding your inquiry in a previous answer, Hammel's studies are coming along marvelously. As I have said, I cannot disclose much information about them, because Cobryn is his mentor, and he rarely talks about anything. Haiweth is also doing well; she has certainly surpassed me in sewing, and her artwork is flourishing._

_Apart from that, I do not have much else to say. You will be pleased to know that your nephew is quite the adorable child. I hope you get the opportunity to see him soon, for if too much time passes he will no longer be the baby he is now. Already he is trying to talk, though it is nothing we can understand._

_I hope things are well with you and Alphros. Send your father my regards._

_Sincerely, Gúthwyn_

With that, Éomund's daughter set the quill down and sighed. It was not the longest letter she had written to him, nor was it the most interesting. Yet it would please him, and that was all that was important. Soon, she would not have to wait for weeks to hear the latest anecdotes about Alphros' antics. Her thoughts would not be expressed to him through the parchment. Instead, she would be walking alongside him by day, sitting next to him at dinner, and sleeping with him at night.

_Remember, it cannot be worse than Haldor,_ she told herself. Elphir would treat her gently; he was of noble spirit, and too chivalrous to intentionally hurt a lady. He would kiss her far more often than the Elf—perhaps, she thought hopefully, he might be content with merely her lips. Yes, there was the obligatory wedding night, but after she gritted her teeth and endured it surely he would not seek her out so frequently.

_I will ask Éowyn,_ she decided. No matter how embarrassing it would be, she would speak to her sister and find out how often Faramir wanted to make love to her. For a moment, she tried to picture Éowyn beneath him. Then she shuddered, and feeling nauseous sought to cast her mind onto other topics.

According to Éomer, the White Lady and the Steward of Gondor would be arriving sometime that day. It had been over a year since she had seen her older sister, and she was looking forward to it immensely. Although she was still resolutely furious at her for failing to come to her defense, careful reflection had made her realize that even Éowyn would not have been able to dissuade Éomer from pursuing a marriage for her.

Another sigh escaped her. _What a miserable life I will soon be leading,_ she mused. _And a false one, at that._ Elphir would never replace Borogor in her heart. She would never be able to love him as he did her.

Her eyes narrowed as she recalled Lothíriel's spiteful words towards her. _He deserves the best of wives…I will not see my brother humiliated for your mistakes, do you understand me?_

Suddenly cold, Gúthwyn shivered. The queen had said that she had overheard her speaking of her impurity to Éomer—yet when had this occurred? She would have never said anything about her past when Lothíriel was in hearing range. Her brother's wife knew more than enough: She had heard of Borogor. That in itself was the one thing Gúthwyn had desired to keep secret.

And to think that she was a whore… it made her feel sick just to think of it. To make matters worse, she could fully understand how Lothíriel had garnered that impression. The queen clearly had no idea of the circumstances surrounding the loss of her virginity; to discover that it was not Cobryn, as she obviously assumed them to be in love with each other, must have been an unpleasant shock. Especially since Gúthwyn did, in fact, have more male friends than female…

Just then, there was a knock on the door. "Sister?"

Gúthwyn surreptitiously covered her letter, not wishing to discuss her impending marriage with Éomer, and called, "Come in."

The door was pushed open, and Éomer stuck his head inside. "Éowyn and Faramir have been seen outside the city walls. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn said, after taking a quick glance at her outfit. It was one of her grey dresses, but it was clean, and her hair had been recently brushed.

Éomer's gaze also lingered on her gown. "Why must you always wear that color?" he asked with a sigh. "White is far more becoming on you; I am sure Elphir would agree."

Gúthwyn's face, which had been smiling at his exasperation, fell. "I prefer grey," she said stiffly, and got to her feet. "Shall we go outside?"

He narrowed his eyes in puzzlement. "Have I offended you?" he inquired softly.

Éomund's daughter almost laughed. "Nay, brother, you have not," she at last replied, and crossed the room to her dresser. Crouching down and opening the bottom drawer, she withdrew Borogor's cloak. It was getting to be late November, and already she was piling at least three blankets on top of her at night.

After watching her, Éomer asked curiously, "Where did you get that cloak?"

Gúthwyn started, and pulled it tightly around her as if it would protect her from his question. She could barely detect Borogor's scent anymore. _This will be the last time I wear it,_ she vowed. _Then I shall keep it in the drawer and preserve it._

"Gúthwyn?"

"It is nothing," she quickly said, hating the lie even as she spoke it. "I just found it awhile ago. Why… why do you ask?"

"I have seen you with it," Éomer explained, looking as if he were unsure whether or not to believe her, "but it is not from Rohan; also, you seem to treat it differently than you do your other one."

Gúthwyn arched an eyebrow. "It is just a cloak," she muttered.

Éomer regarded her for a moment, and then said, "Well, let us go."

They passed out into the hallway, Gúthwyn only stopping to fetch Haiweth from her room.

"When is Éowyn going to get here?" the girl wanted to know.

"Soon, little one," Gúthwyn replied, tendrils of excitement beginning to weave themselves through her. Her steps were light as she followed Éomer into the great hall. Normally, he received guests from atop his throne, but family was an exception. Today, they would wait for Éowyn outside on the stairs, and retire into Meduseld once Éomer had suggested dinner.

All day long the servants had been preparing for the meal, and the smells of it wafted into Gúthwyn's nostrils as she made her way towards the doors. She detected several different cuts of meat and felt a faint rolling in her stomach. _Not now,_ she thought angrily, and fixed her eyes on the doors.

Once they were open, her nausea disappeared and was replaced by keen-edged anticipation. Many of the guards were gathered on the stairs already, waiting for the return of the White Lady. Gúthwyn joined them, shivering in the cold as she strained to catch a glimpse of the party from Ithilien. Unfortunately, the streets were still Éowyn-free.

Elfhelm chuckled to see her standing on her tiptoes. "I think the only one more eager to reunite with her than you is Haiweth," he commented in an undertone, and laughed as she blushed.

"I have not seen her for over a year," Gúthwyn replied, not lowering herself to the ground even then.

"Neither have the rest of us," he reminded her. "And Rohan is all the dimmer for it."

Gúthwyn smiled at this praise of her sister, and then glanced to where Éomer was standing beside Lothíriel. The queen was holding Elfwine contentedly, every now and then smoothing her hair out of his reach. When her eyes met Gúthwyn's, they darkened, and as Éomund's daughter looked away she sighed. Although the two of them had formed an uneasy truce since their confrontation in her room, they hardly spoke to each other. The only times they sought one another out were when they were exchanging Elfwine, for Gúthwyn still watched him frequently.

"There she is!" someone suddenly called. Gúthwyn jumped, and instinctively stepped forward. Regretfully, this placed her on the next lowest step; she lost some valuable height, as she was far shorter than most of the people. Now she could barely see across the crowd that was beginning to gather. _By the Valar,_ she thought irritably, wrapping her arms around herself, _why is it so cold out?_

Nevertheless, in a mere minute she saw a flash of gold. Her heart quickened, and before she could stop herself she jumped up in an effort to see better. Elfhelm's mirth at this made her cheeks turn red, yet even though she restrained herself afterwards she could not help but feel as impatient as if she were five years old and counting down the months until she could learn how to use a sword.

Slowly, Éowyn came into view, looking even more beautiful than she had when Gúthwyn had last seen her. Her golden hair had grown longer, and now fell in a graceful curtain to her waist. A healthy glow was in her face; she kept glancing at Faramir, and when she did so a smile dazzled everything in its path. The Steward was unchanged, still appearing as if he was unable to believe his good luck in marriage.

The people were calling out to their lady as she rode by, and Éowyn was waving to as many of them as she could, beaming at her reception. Gúthwyn watched as she drew closer, trying to ignore the pang she felt whenever she saw Faramir. Borogor had perished at his hand over four years ago—she still saw his body crumpling to the foliage every time she looked at her sister's husband.

But today, she only wanted to revel in Éowyn's return. When the White Lady at last arrived at the steps, her grin broadened to see Éomer and Lothíriel. She swiftly dismounted, not waiting for Faramir to help her down. The Steward smiled at this, and followed his wife as she went to greet the king.

"Well met, brother," Gúthwyn heard her saying, just before she embraced Éomer.

"It has been far too long," he murmured. As they separated, he added, "You look wonderful."

"Thank you," Éowyn said with a blush, and turned to the queen. "Lothíriel, it is good to see you," she spoke, smiling.

Lothíriel returned the gesture, not a trace of the anger with which she viewed Gúthwyn in her eyes. "I am glad you have visited," she replied warmly. "We have missed you."

"And is this Elfwine?" Éowyn asked, but the question needed no answer. "Éomer, his face is a mirror of your own!"

"He is his father's son," Lothíriel agreed, positively gleaming with pride. "He is certainly very handsome."

Éomer grinned, and slipped an arm about his wife's waist. "He shares Gúthwyn's birthday," he remarked.

Éowyn's head lifted, and her eyes scanned the crowd on the stairs. "Where is she?" she asked.

Gúthwyn moved forward: Gamling's far taller frame had hidden her from view. Barely giving Éowyn a chance to recognize her, she flung herself into her sister's arms. "I missed you so much!" she cried, happier than words could describe at finally seeing Éowyn again.

"I missed you, also," Éowyn whispered, returning the embrace. "Let me have a look at you."

Obligingly, Gúthwyn stepped back, allowing her sister to give her a critical once-over. Beyond her shoulder, she could see Faramir exchanging greetings with Éomer and Lothíriel.

"You have not gained much weight," Éowyn said, raising an eyebrow. "Sister, you are still too thin."

Gúthwyn did not tell her that she had been eating less than usual ever since she had given her consent to marry Elphir. Instead, she laughed a little, and asked, "Is that all you have to say to me?"

"No, not at all," Éowyn replied, grinning in spite of herself. "We have much to catch up on. Where are Hammel and Haiweth?"

Turning around, Gúthwyn shaded her eyes with her hand and searched for their small figures. She did not have to wait for long, however: Continuing his uncanny habit of turning up whenever he was needed, Hammel appeared, bringing Haiweth along with him.

"Welcome, my lady," the boy said, bowing. After a moment's worth of confusion, for she clearly did not understand why he was addressing Éowyn so formally, Haiweth followed suit. Éowyn laughed merrily at this.

"Thank you, Hammel," she said kindly. "You have grown since I last saw you! I think you are almost as tall as Gúthwyn."

Looking pleased with himself, Hammel glanced at Gúthwyn. Their heads were nearly level; he only had an inch or two to go.

"Gúthwyn said I might be taller than her," Haiweth interjected proudly.

Éowyn exchanged an amused look with Gúthwyn, and said, "That does not to me seem impossible."

Haiweth bore a smug expression for the rest of the day.

"How are you?" Gúthwyn asked her sister softly, noting how happy she was.

"I have never been better," was Éowyn's firm reply. "And what of you? Did you get my letter?" There was a look in her eyes as she said this, in which Gúthwyn observed the true meaning of the question.

"You will hear about it at dinner," Éomund's daughter responded heavily. "How was your trip?"

"It was fine," Éowyn said, though her gaze held Gúthwyn's for another minute. "Your skin is pale," she observed softly. Hammel's eyes flicked onto her. "Have you been inside often?"

"It is freezing," Gúthwyn said defensively. Indeed, her teeth had been chattering the entire time she had been out.

Éowyn took her hand, and made a quiet exclamation. "You are as cold as death!" she cried. "Come, we must go inside. Are you feeling ill?"

"No," Gúthwyn said immediately, slightly unnerved by Éowyn's worry. "I am fine, really."

"Gúthwyn is always cold," Haiweth added. "The maids keep saying that she uses too many blankets at night."

"The maids fuss too much," Gúthwyn said with a smile, ruffling the girl's hair. "You should not take their words so seriously."

It was then that Éomer, Faramir, and Lothíriel joined them. "My lady Gúthwyn," Faramir said with a bow.

Gúthwyn tensed, and gave a brief curtsy. "My lord Faramir," she replied as he straightened. His eyes sought hers for a moment, remembering all too well the death of Borogor—how she had begged him to bury the fallen second-in-command, how she had knelt before him and pleaded in a way that she had not done even to Haldor. Soon, he looked away.

"Shall we go inside?" Éomer inquired, his arm still comfortably resting on the curve of Lothíriel's waist. "Dinner is waiting only for us to consume it."

"That sounds excellent," Éowyn said, smiling.

"Sister, would you like me to help you unpack afterwards?" Gúthwyn asked, hoping that Éowyn would take the subtle hint. While she quailed at the thought, the activity would bring the perfect opportunity for her to question Éowyn about how often Faramir wanted to make love to her. No one would be able to hear them, which she wanted to be certain of before speaking of such a topic.

"Of course," was Éowyn's response, although it was difficult to tell whether or not she had picked up on the hidden intent.

On that statement, the company retired inside, accompanied by the children. Cobryn joined them once they had passed through the doors, and greeted Éowyn cordially.

"It has been long since we last saw each other," the White Lady said. "How are you? Gúthwyn mentioned that you have been tutoring Hammel."

"As well as I am able, my lady," Cobryn answered, with all the deference that he never showed Lothíriel. The queen noted this, and her eyes narrowed.

Once they had all seated themselves at the table, the servants came around and began pouring the ale. Gúthwyn's mug was only filled halfway, as it was rare that she had more than a few sips.

"How was your journey?" Éomer asked as they were settling. "Was the road clear?"

"Impeccably so," Faramir commented. "We met nary a traveler, and experienced no troubles."

"Aye, there was nothing to complain about," Éowyn said happily.

"I am glad that you arrived safely," Éomer remarked with a grin. "I would not have any of my sisters experiencing discomfort in their travels."

Éowyn said something in return, but Gúthwyn's attention was distracted by Elfwine. He was reaching his hand out to her, making small noises with his mouth. Lothíriel frowned at this, but did not say anything. It was only when Elfwine began fussing and twisting himself out of her grasp that she lowered her voice and asked, "Would you mind holding him?"

"Of course not," Gúthwyn said, and held out her arms to receive her nephew. He immediately grabbed at her hair, sticking both it and his fingers into his mouth. Placated, he cooed unintelligibly and stared curiously at the newcomers. "Hands, little one," Gúthwyn instructed him softly, removing her locks from their dangerous position. "You may play with my hair, but only using your hands—remember?"

Elfwine glanced at her dolefully, and made one last feeble attempt to capture her hair before giving up.

"Lord Faramir," Lothíriel began then, speaking over the bustle of the servants who were now distributing the food. "How go things in Ithilien?"

"Very well, cousin," Faramir assured her. Gúthwyn started at the term, and then remembered that the Steward's mother and Prince Imrahil were siblings. "The forest is swiftly on its way to becoming whole again, with no small thanks to Prince Legolas and his colony. They have planted many trees to replace the ones that were hewn down by the servants of the Enemy." His eyes darted to Gúthwyn for the barest instant, and a flush of shame crept over her cheeks. She had not chopped down any of the ancient branches, and neither had Borogor nor the other men in their scouting troop, but she knew that other soldiers were less careful.

Looking down at the table, she glanced around for the bread. It was not too far from her: the servants knew of her preference for it, and were diligent in making sure that it was never out of her reach. Once Éomer had begun eating, she selected a slice and started picking at it. She was eager for the dinner to be over, so that she could discuss with Éowyn what she was to expect from Elphir.

At the sight of the bread, Elfwine leaned forward, straining to take a bite. Only the beginning of a tiny tooth was in his mouth, but he had mastered the art of swallowing and was not a choosy eater. She tore off a small piece and fed it to him, making sure that he had finished it before giving him another.

"And what news of Rohan, brother?" Éowyn wanted to know. "I find that you have been curiously vague about matters concerning the realm of late."

Gúthwyn stiffened as Éomer grinned at her. Lothíriel's face was suddenly mask-like.

"As a matter of fact," Éomer began, his smile widening as Éowyn glanced back and forth between her siblings, "we have some excellent tidings. Recall you that Gúthwyn was searching for a husband?"

Faramir's eyes drew swiftly to her, and Gúthwyn flushed in humiliation. "_You_ were searching, brother," she muttered.

"_We_ were searching," Éomer corrected.

Éowyn met her gaze then, the smallest trace of guilt in their blue depths.

"In any case," Éomer continued, "we wrote to Prince Imrahil, suggesting a marriage between Prince Elphir and Gúthwyn."

Immediately, Éowyn straightened. "When was this?" she demanded, surprise evident in her features.

Hammel stabbed viciously at his meat.

"A couple of weeks ago," Éomer replied. Gúthwyn heard his voice as if from a distance; she stared determinedly down at her plate, willing him to be quiet. Elfwine was suddenly heavy in her lap. She tried to concentrate on his actions, but they were not enough to keep her from hearing what her siblings were saying. "I did not bother writing to you, because I knew you would not receive it in time."

"Gúthwyn, I did not know you thought so highly of Prince Elphir," Éowyn commented. When Éomund's youngest daughter lifted her head, she noticed her sister's slightly narrowed eyes.

"He is a wonderful man," Gúthwyn answered softly, trying not to cringe. She was keenly aware of how closely Lothíriel was watching her. "We have been friends since our first meeting."

"They always write letters to each other," Haiweth added helpfully, looking pleased to be able to contribute something to the conversation.

"Did you get a response?" Éowyn asked, leaning forward somewhat.

Éomer grinned. "Just two weeks afterwards," he answered. "Evidently, Imrahil and his advisors were considering the very idea. He must have sent his proposal at around the same time, if not earlier."

"What a coincidence," Éowyn agreed, her eyes wide as she looked at Gúthwyn. "Congratulations, sister."

"Good luck," Faramir said quietly, his words like a knife cutting through her heart.

"Thank you," she responded, swallowing hard.

"Did anyone else ask for your hand?" Éowyn inquired interestedly. "I half expected to hear all about the offers in your letters, yet you mentioned nothing of the subject."

"She did not?" Éomer questioned, astonished. Gúthwyn's face paled, and she turned to Cobryn as if seeking for assistance, but he could only smile sympathetically.

"No," Éowyn confirmed, seeming puzzled. "Did none approach you, sister?"

"A few did," Gúthwyn admitted, lowering her eyes to Elfwine again. He beamed at her.

"A _few?_" Éomer echoed, snorting. "Éowyn, every single man who could logically be her husband approached me in hopes of wedding her! I cannot think of a guard or a soldier who has not done so."

"Erkenbrand," Gúthwyn was quick to say, feeling mortified. "Lebryn."

"Lebryn is married," Éomer retorted just as swiftly, "and Erkenbrand is, as you said, Tun's uncle."

"Lebryn is married?" Éowyn repeated, arching an eyebrow. "To whom?"

"Gamling's niece," Gúthwyn answered, struggling against the sudden nausea in her stomach. "They are expecting a child next summer."

"I never would have suspected him capable of settling down," Éowyn said with a smirk. "From what I saw of him, he always had a new woman on his arm every five minutes!"

"He shaped up," Cobryn commented, his face blank of all expression. The two of them had had a furious argument about the matter shortly before Lebryn's wedding, and were now not even remotely close to speaking terms.

"What about Tun?" Éowyn asked then, looking at Gúthwyn. "Did he make a proposal?"

Gúthwyn's cheeks turned scarlet. "Yes," she whispered. "He was the first."

Éowyn's mouth dropped open. "I thought you would have accepted him! Sister, he was in love with you from the moment you returned."

Trying to ignore how much her words stung, Gúthwyn said, "He is married to a wonderful woman. It matters not. Will you pass the stew?"

The White Lady obliged, but now Gúthwyn had no choice but to ladle some of the broth and vegetables onto her plate. She was conscientious in avoiding the meat, yet when she hesitatingly tasted the soup she could still detect a residue of it. With a sigh, she lowered her spoon. Elfwine chose that moment to grab it; several droplets flung upwards and hit her in the face. Hastily, Gúthwyn wiped herself with a napkin, and then gently coaxed the spoon away from her nephew.

"Well," Éowyn said then, giving the younger woman a sharp look when she noticed how little she was eating. "When are you to marry Prince Elphir?"

"If the negotiations go as planned, sometime next year," Gúthwyn replied, tickling Elfwine. He giggled, all his sullenness at having the spoon taken away disappearing.

"I expect to be invited to the wedding," Éowyn said lightly, smiling.

The rest of the dinner was unbearably slow and uncomfortable. The discussion went back and forth between tidings of various realms and Gúthwyn's impending marriage. Lothíriel's eyes flashed whenever the latter was mentioned, and Gúthwyn was just as reluctant to speak of it. With Faramir across the table from her, having the full knowledge that the man she loved was dead, it was even worse.

At long last, the servants came to clear the plates. Éomer and Faramir had since drifted into a discussion about the price of horses in Gondor, something that held no interest for Gúthwyn. While Heorot was getting older, she had no desire to seek out a new one until she had no other choice.

After Hammel and Haiweth had gone to bed, Éowyn looked at Gúthwyn and asked in an undertone, "Shall we go unpack?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn agreed almost immediately, getting to her feet. Lothíriel had recently taken Elfwine back, as the baby was on the verge of falling asleep and no longer interested in his aunt's hair. When Éomer and Faramir glanced over at her, she explained, "I am going to help Éowyn get settled in, if you will excuse us."

"Have fun," Éomer said with a smile and a wave of his hand.

Immensely relieved, Gúthwyn all but ran out of the hallway, only slowing herself in order for Éowyn to catch up. The two sisters proceeded in silence down the hallway, mindful that the children were supposed to be sleeping. Éowyn opened the door to the room she and Faramir would be using; their things had already been deposited by some servants.

"You did not seem very happy about your wedding," Éowyn said the second they had shut themselves inside.

Gúthwyn groaned, and sunk onto the bed. Burying her face in her hands, she cried, "I do not love him!"

Éowyn sat down beside her. "Then why are you marrying him?" she questioned softly.

"Because," Gúthwyn choked out. "Éomer was furious when he found out that I asked you to interfere and convince him not to search for a husband for me. He had a meeting the very next day, and—and…" She bit her lip, feeling as if she would break down in sobs if she continued.

"And what?" Éowyn pressed gently, putting an arm around her shoulders.

"I-I do not know," Gúthwyn said miserably. "I mean, I-I thought that… I thought that… I just…" She took a deep breath. "It was either him, one of the men I had already refused, or Cobryn. And at least… at least we are friends already."

"You chose him over Cobryn?" Éowyn inquired, seeming surprised.

Gúthwyn nodded. "Neither of us would be happy if we were to marry," she said heavily. "We both know this. He offered to petition to Éomer for my hand, if the council wanted me to wed a man I despised, but I hardly hate Elphir."

"What is done is done," Éowyn reminded her. "Elphir will treat you well, sister. You could have hardly done better."

_Borogor,_ Gúthwyn longed to say, but she held her tongue. "You are right," she instead sighed, the knot in her heart twisting with each syllable that she spoke. "We should be unpacking…"

"Aye." Éowyn surveyed the room. "Will you put away my garments? I can take care of Faramir's."

Gúthwyn agreed to this, and soon the two of them were removing the clothes from their containers and folding them. As they worked, Éowyn asked, "Why did you not tell me about your suitors?"

Shrugging uneasily, Gúthwyn said, "I did not think the matter was that important. Nothing ever came of them, in any case."

"That is not the point," Éowyn answered. Gúthwyn could almost see her rolling her eyes. "And what of Tun? I am shocked that you refused him."

"I do not love him as a woman should her husband," Gúthwyn said quietly. "He deserved better. Now he has an excellent wife, and I am happy for them both."

Éowyn clucked her tongue at this, but said nothing. They carried out the task of sorting clothes in silence, each preoccupied with their own thoughts. Gúthwyn was trying to figure out how to best broach the subject of love-making. She trembled whenever she imagined asking Éowyn about it, but she was well aware that now was the best time to do it—there was no one to hear them, and the Valar knew when they would next be alone together.

"Sister," she finally blurted out, turning red as she did so. "I have a… I have a question."

"What might that be?" Éowyn wanted to know, folding one of Faramir's shirts and placing it in the dresser.

Gúthwyn's hands were twitching so much that she dropped the dress she was holding, and missed it twice before picking it up again. "H-How often do you and Faramir… I mean, how often d-does Faramir want…" she trailed off and gulped. "Does Faramir always…"

Éowyn turned around, her eyes narrowed in puzzlement. They grew even more confused when she saw how flustered Gúthwyn was. "Does Faramir always what?"

For some strange reason, Gúthwyn thought she would cry. "I-I just meant… well…" _Just say it!_ she screamed at herself. She clenched her fists and gritted out, "How often does Faramir force you to make love to him?"

Her older sister blinked, and in the next instant her eyes widened. "_What?_"

"How often does he force you to make love to him?" Gúthwyn whispered, trying to stop the tears from forming. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and waited for Éowyn's response.

"Gúthwyn," Éowyn began, seemingly at a loss for words. She drew closer, and gestured vaguely at the bed. "Here, let us sit down."

Confused, Gúthwyn obeyed. Every nerve in her body was on edge, each muscle taut with anxiety.

"Gúthwyn," Éowyn said again, sighing. "Why would you… why would you ask such a thing?"

"Because," Gúthwyn muttered, angrily wiping away the tears that had emerged in the corners of her eyes. "I w-wanted to know… how often Elphir would… how often he would make me…" Her voice faded away until not even she could hear it; her lips were moving soundlessly, and before she knew it she was quaking uncontrollably.

"Gúthwyn, stop!" Two firm hands clamped down on her shoulders. "Look at me!" Éowyn ordered. Gúthwyn found herself staring into her sister's eyes. The sight of them calmed her a little, and when she was told to take deep breaths she did so without much difficulty.

Éowyn watched her with an odd expression on her face. For a moment, Gúthwyn was bewildered by it. Then she realized that it was pity. "Listen, baby sister," she said quietly. "Faramir would never force himself on me. When we make love, it is because we both want to."

All of the breath left Gúthwyn's chest. Éowyn's hand was still on her shoulder and she recoiled from it, staring at her sister in horror. "You _like_ it?" she choked out, aghast. She felt as if she would throw up.

"Gúthwyn, please," Éowyn said, trying to close the gap between them again. Gúthwyn scrambled away, putting as much distance between them as was possible before she felt the headboard of the bed against her back. Haldor's hands were wandering all over her, his whispers of _beg, beg _surrounding her… she was trapped beneath him, his larger frame all but suffocating her—and suddenly Éowyn was there, watching and laughing, her face made hideous by the darkness…

"No!" she exclaimed, leaping off the bed and staring at her sister as if she had never known her before this day. "Stop it!"

"Gúthwyn, please!" Éowyn said again, remaining where she was. "You do not understand!"

"What do I not understand?" Gúthwyn demanded hysterically, having half a mind to bolt out of the Golden Hall. "You _enjoy_ it!"

"Sister, calm down," Éowyn said. Her voice was soothing, but Gúthwyn could not help looking at her as though she were a monster. "Please, sit."

"No," Gúthwyn said immediately, her hands curling into fists.

Éowyn sighed. "If I ask you something," she began slowly, "will you answer it for me?"

"Why?" Gúthwyn asked suspiciously, edging closer to the door.

If Éowyn noticed her movements, she made no sign of it. "Please, Gúthwyn," she said softly.

"What is it?"

"When you were in Haldor's tent," Éowyn started hesitantly, and Gúthwyn instantly froze, "how did you feel?"

For several minutes, Gúthwyn stood there, struggling with conflicting emotions. Part of her wanted to scream at Éowyn; the other half wanted only to run away and never look back.

Yet it was a different instinct that spoke for her, something that made her swallow and say, "Disgusting."

Éowyn's eyes never left hers as she continued, stumbling over her words. "L-Like I was… like I was unclean. A-And it hurt. I wanted to go… to go home. I-I wanted to s-see Hammel and H-H-Haiweth again. He scared me… I-I could never breathe, and he always s-said things…"

She did not realize that she was crying until she discovered that Éowyn was merely a blur. Humiliated, she tried to stifle her sobs, but it was as useless as trying to prevent the rising and setting of the sun. Her entire body was wracked with tears, streaming down her cheeks until she was powerless to stop them.

"Oh, Gúthwyn," she heard, and the next thing she knew was the feeling of Éowyn's arms wrapping around her. Feebly, Gúthwyn tried to pull away, but she hardly moved an inch. Finally she gave up, collapsing against her sister and weeping. _I hate this,_ she thought miserably. _I hate being reduced to this at the drop of a hat. When will it end?_

Éowyn held her tightly, not saying anything even when the shoulder of her gown became soaked. "You are so young," she murmured, stroking her hair as if she were Théodwyn.

"I-I-I am n-not," Gúthwyn tried to reply, but all that came out was an odd kind of choking noise.

"Yes, you are," Éowyn replied, guessing what she had been about to say. Her voice was not unkind as she continued, "Sister, believe me when I say that there is nothing wrong with wanting to make love with your husband. When I am with Faramir, I feel safe, and I know that he will take care of me. Haldor never did that to you. He raped you."

Gúthwyn nearly howled at this, shaking her head frantically and clinging to Éowyn even harder. She wanted every session at Haldor's tent to be erased from her memory—she wanted to sleep through the night without fear of the dreams that plagued her—and she wanted to completely forget the Elf who had made her the way she was now: nothing more than a frail shadow of her former self.

"I promise you," Éowyn said quietly, "Elphir will never do to you what Haldor did. You have my word."

Gúthwyn closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly against the pain. Although her tears soon slowed to a trickle, her body continued to shake, remembering the abuse that Haldor had heaped on her with almost alarming clarity. Éowyn held her close, murmuring soothing words and gently rubbing her back. It was not until Faramir knocked on the door that Éomund's youngest daughter hastily dried her eyes and stepped away from her sister. "Thank you," she whispered just before she left, hiding her face from the Steward's view.

When Gúthwyn checked on the children, they were resting peacefully, and for the first time in weeks she felt a measure of security coming over her. No matter what Haldor had done to her, the children were safe; they were with her, a sturdy roof above their heads and enough food to keep them from going hungry. That, at least, she could take comfort in.

"Sleep well," she bade them, and shut the door.


	59. Where Loyalties Lie

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Fifty-Nine:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Fifty-Nine**

Tun sighed as Erkenbrand got under his guard for the third time that day, letting the point of his sword rest on his neck. "Yield," he said, utterly powerless against his uncle.

"See?" Erkenbrand spoke, a grin on his face. "I am not so old yet that I cannot hold my own in a sparring match."

"You are just lucky I am not trying that hard," Tun retorted. It was not entirely a lie.

"Your mind has been elsewhere all practice," Erkenbrand agreed, nodding. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing important," Tun automatically said, and then felt his stomach clench as he saw Gúthwyn besting Gamling out of the corner of his eye.

Erkenbrand exhaled, all traces of amusement gone from his features. "Stop staring at her," he muttered.

Blinking, Tun looked at his uncle, chagrined as he wondered how obvious he was being. "What do you mean?" he nevertheless managed.

"Tun, you have to put the past behind you," his uncle responded, and then clapped him on the shoulder. "Come, let us fight again. Give me a challenge for once."

This inspired him to put more effort into his strikes, and for several furious minutes he prevented Erkenbrand from getting anywhere close to winning. Their blades clashed together, shining in the high noon sun that was glaring down upon them. But his determination did not last for long: As he was parrying a blow, he happened to hear Gúthwyn's laughter. The musical sound of it reminded him of how she had once giggled at his jokes; before he knew it, his sword was knocked out of his hands, and the pommel of Erkenbrand's had delivered a sharp rap on his head.

"What was that for?" he grumbled, bending over to retrieve Forstrang.

"You have a wife now," Erkenbrand pointed out in a low tone of voice. "And it is not Gúthwyn."

Tun felt a familiar guilt ensnaring him once more. He truly loved Brithwen. She was a wonderful woman, and he enjoyed her company. They had experienced many good times together, and he could only hope that their marriage would continue on its upward course. She was kind-spoken and gentle, always level-headed and sensible. It was a rare occasion that she could not say anything to make his day a little better, and he strove to do the same for her.

Yet she was not Gúthwyn.

"Uncle, enough," he ground out belatedly, repressing a groan as Gúthwyn smiled at Gamling. "I do not love her anymore."

"Then why are you paying more attention to what she is doing rather than your sword?" Erkenbrand queried, arching an eyebrow at the outright lie. "I think it a safe wager that you could tell me everything she has done in the past half hour, yet you could not recount five minutes of your own actions."

"I am warning you," Tun said, growing more irritated with both his uncle and himself by the second. "One more—"

"You owe Brithwen your loyalty, if nothing more."

"I am getting a drink," Tun snapped, trying not to cringe as Erkenbrand's words lashed at his conscience. "Find another partner."

He stalked over to where he had left his water canteen, struggling to conceal the emotions churning within him. On top of his remorse concerning Brithwen, he now wished he had not been so rude to his uncle. After all, Erkenbrand was right—he was thinking of Gúthwyn too often.

When he was only a few feet away from his destination, one of the men stormed past him, his shoulder roughly shoving Tun aside.

"You are excused," Tun muttered sarcastically upon seeing that the soldier was Lebryn. As much as he hated to dislike a friend of Gúthwyn's, he privately felt that the less he saw of this man, the better. Lebryn wasted no opportunity to taunt him for his service as Gúthwyn's champion, and never ceased to ridicule him whenever they were in each other's company.

His mood was even worse than usual, now that he had married Gamling's niece. Apparently the two of them argued quite frequently, and whenever they fought the night before he always arrived at the training grounds with a harsh look on his face and a fouler disposition. Whomever was foolish enough to be his opponent usually found themselves lying flat on the ground, bruises forming on various parts of their bodies and ego.

Upon hearing Tun's comment, Lebryn swiveled around and approached him again. "What did you say?" he demanded.

Tun's temper was dangerously close to the breaking point. He had no desire to deal with Lebryn's abrasive behavior at the moment—although he had an increasing urge to wring his neck.

"I excused you," he explained shortly.

"Maybe," Lebryn breathed angrily, "you should have watched where you were going."

Tun rolled his eyes, taking a swig from his canteen. His gaze moved beyond Lebryn to where Gúthwyn was bidding farewell to Gamling, clearly ready to leave the training grounds. She did not spend as much time with the soldiers as she used to; he knew that he was partly to blame. Other men had since asked her for her hand, but (relieving him in a way that he was too ashamed to admit) she had turned them all down—that was the other reason.

A derisive sneer from Lebryn broke him out of his musings. "Out of curiosity," he said, his eyes glittering, "is there ever an occasion on which you are not staring at her like a dog awaiting a bone from its master?"

"Say another word," Tun threatened, his fists clenching, "and I swear I will—"

"What?" Lebryn interrupted him, chuckling. "At least with the dog, it is bound to its owner. Yet you have a wife!"

Tun passed an enjoyable second contemplating every way in which he might torture and kill the other man. He might have followed through with one of them, had Gúthwyn not chosen to walk right by them that instant. It became an extremely difficult task to not concentrate on how her hair was tumbling freely down her back, or how her endless blue eyes were casually surveying the other warriors.

Thinking firmly of Brithwen, Tun averted his gaze, and stared determinedly at the ground until she had passed. When he glanced up, he saw that Lebryn had not been so scrupulous—and was watching her curves, rather than her face.

"How dare you look at her that way?" Tun seethed, stepping closer to Lebryn and blocking his view.

"Peace," Lebryn drawled, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "I like women, not skeletons."

In retrospect, Tun should have known that the soldier was goading him, rather than expressing his true feelings about Gúthwyn. In any case, Lebryn's words infuriated him. "You should be falling on your knees in front of her!" he snarled. "Without her, you would be homeless!"

Laughing, Lebryn jeered, "You are pathetic. Would you jump to Brithwen's defense so quickly?"

Tun grabbed his arm—the one that he now wished to amputate, so that it matched the other—and hissed, "If you utter another _syllable_ about either of them, I will kill you!"

Lebryn spat in his face. "Everyone knows you married her because Gúthwyn rejected you."

"At least _I_ did not marry her because she was already pregnant with my child!" Tun growled.

What remained of Lebryn's right arm came flying up and struck him. At the same time, he felt his legs being kicked out from underneath him. He collapsed to the ground, barely having time to catch his breath before the other man was on top of him.

"You whoreson!" Lebryn roared as he closed his fist and sent it flying downwards. Tun thanked his reflexes as he blocked the punch, but from his position he was incapable of returning it. Nor could he get out from below the former slave: he was pinned too effectively.

Lebryn then struck him on the side of his head, causing stars to explode in front of his eyes. As a crowd started gathering around them, Tun's fingers slipped to his belt, searching for his knife. In order to give himself some room, his other hand shot up and grabbed Lebryn by the neck. Yet even as the man gasped for air, he returned fire with fire, closing his own fist about Tun's throat.

The brawl ended when Tun freed his knife from its sheathe and slipped it underneath the exposed flesh of Lebryn's neck. "Get off of me," he ground out.

Lebryn's eyes darted to the gleaming blade. Reluctantly, he loosened his hold and got off of Tun, allowing him to get to his feet. The other men dispersed except for Erkenbrand, who drew closer, clearly intending to break up any beginnings of a second fight.

"By the way," Lebryn said then, his breathing heavy and his eyes mere slits. "You might not have heard this, but your _lady_ is getting married."

For a moment, Tun thought that he had been hit in the stomach with a battering ram. As Lebryn grinned in triumph, his mind became filled with a numb buzzing. _Married?_ he repeated to himself. _Gúthwyn?_

"What do you mean?" he at last choked out, not wanting to believe a word of it.

"Married," Lebryn repeated, smirking. "It happens when a man and a woman fall in love with each other. They exchange vows of union, and that night they… ah, _consummate_ it."

Tun's stomach turned cold. "Who is she marrying?" he demanded.

"Tun," Erkenbrand interrupted sternly, stepping forward.

He ignored his uncle. "Who?"

Lebryn tapped his head with his finger. "The name seems to have slipped me… Nay, it was not Elfhelm… Elfwine is the baby…"

Tun's grip tightened on his knife.

"Ah, I remember," Lebryn said, smiling lazily. "_Prince_ Elphir of Dol Amroth."

The instant he heard the name Elphir, Tun's first impulse was to hate the man. He had known that Gúthwyn was friends with him, but had thought nothing of it, for she had few female companions and tended to get along more easily with their husbands. _What does she see in him?_ he asked silently, trying to recall everything he knew about the prince.

Just as quickly as he posed the question, he had his answer. _Because he is royalty—he knows how to court a woman._

"It seems that Gúthwyn has aspirations for a crown," Lebryn smirked, now simply pouring salt into the open wound. "I suppose that none of the Rohirrim could provide that for her, and she had to turn her attentions elsewhere. I can hardly blame her—rumor has it that Dol Amroth royalty live even more lavishly than they do in Gondor."

"She does not care about riches," Tun spat, hoping more than anything that he was right. "You know nothing about her!"

"I lived with her for three years," Lebryn said off-handedly. "Which is more than you have done."

"You—"

"Tun!" Erkenbrand barked. "Lebryn! Enough, both of you! You are here to practice, not to exchange petty insults. Lebryn, get back to work. Tun, get over here."

Again, Tun pretended he had not heard him. "How did you learn of this?" he pressed Lebryn.

"I overheard the high-and-mighty Cobryn discussing it with that boy," Lebryn said, a scowl on his face at the mention of the advisor.

Tun opened his mouth, but he never got the chance to respond. A hand clamped down on his shoulder, and he found himself being whirled around by his uncle. "Do you have any idea what your behavior looks like?" Erkenbrand hissed. "What would Brithwen say if she heard you?"

"Lebryn was—"

"Lebryn knew just how to push your buttons, and he succeeded," Erkenbrand growled. "Next time, show your wife more loyalty and do not rush to defend another woman! I am aware that you still love Gúthwyn, but for Ilúvatar's sake you need to forget about her!"

"How can I forget about her?" Tun burst out, his head swimming. He was seized by a sudden thought and asked, "Did you know of her marriage?"

"Yes," Erkenbrand said, and Tun's heart clenched. Why was he always the last one to hear of news concerning Gúthwyn? "This is precisely why I did not tell you! She could spurn you and laugh at you, and yet you would still follow her around like—"

Tun freed himself from his uncle's grasp. "Excuse me," he said woodenly. Too much was crammed into his mind; he needed some peace, or a place where he could sit down and digest what he had just learned before taking any action.

"Do not seek her out!" Erkenbrand warned. "You no longer have a right to."

The words struck his heart, but with a sense of helplessness he realized that his uncle was telling the truth. If Gúthwyn had not even told him about her impending marriage, then she clearly was trying to avoid all mention of the subject.

_How would I explain this to Brithwen?_ he wondered as he left the training grounds, retrieving his sword before he left. The further he came away from the heat of the moment, the more shame tightened its grip on him. _I completely lost control of myself,_ he thought bitterly.

And yet it had been for Gúthwyn's sake. Lebryn's comment had been inappropriate, and like any champion would do he had defended his lady. However, now he could not help but feel hurt that she had at last chosen someone over him. It was beyond him to understand why she had turned him down; they were kissing for several seconds until she pulled away, and she had been sobbing such as he had never seen her do while she refused.

_Why am I still in love with her?_ he wondered, sitting down on a bail of hay. _I have Brithwen, and I could not ask for a better wife. She has always treated me better than I deserve._

All of these things he could tell himself until he turned blue in the face, but his mind would inevitably return to Gúthwyn. _Why Elphir?_ he thought. _What is it that she finds attractive about him?_

There were so many possibilities that he began to feel like a tiny speck on the horizon in comparison. Elphir was handsome, well-educated, courteous, an excellent dancer, talented with a blade, and just happened to be next in line for the throne of Dol Amroth. Thus, not only did he have a far higher social status than Tun, but he also was practically rolling in riches and likely had dozens of servants waiting on him hand and foot.

But the Gúthwyn that he knew had never cared for those things. If anything, they turned her away. So why had she changed her mind all of a sudden, and decided to marry Elphir? If the prince was anything like his sister, he was aloof and sometimes even cold, which was a personality so wrong for Gúthwyn that he could not even begin to describe its injustices.

_I have to speak to her,_ he decided. _Then, I will at least know why she has chosen him._ And after he found out her reasoning, he would have to let it go. He owed that to Brithwen, if not to anyone else.

If not to himself.

* * *

"Listen closely, Elfwine," Gúthwyn said, adjusting her hold on her nephew. "One of the most important things you can remember about your people is that they are proud by nature. Do you remember how Elfhelm would not admit that I had beaten him at sparring today?"

Elfwine giggled, and blew a spit bubble.

"Now you are just being silly," she admonished him. She was rewarded with a toothless grin and another bubble.

Sighing contentedly, she kissed him on the brow and continued walking down the street. He was placated enough to remain in her arms without fuss, and she found herself falling more in love with him by the second. He was adorable—every single one of his chubby fingers, every wisp of hair on his head, every sound that he made. "Éomer is so lucky to have you," she murmured.

As she spoke, she turned around, not wanting to stray too far down the street in case her brother's meeting ended early and he came out in search of his son. It was late in the day; the sun had already begun its downward course, deepening the blue skies and bringing a chill to the air. Gúthwyn was wearing her thickest dress, as well as a fur-lined cloak that Éomer had given her last winter. Now she was exceedingly glad that he had done so, for she was freezing.

Even Elfwine, who seemed exceptionally warm-blooded, was wrapped snugly in his fleece blanket. The two of them had been outside for over an hour, but now was the time to turn in. He only made a small whimper of protest as she began making her way back up the street.

"My lady?"

The voice was quiet and tentative, but Gúthwyn knew immediately who it was. "Hello, Tun," she replied, turning to face him. He was closing the door of his home, having evidently just stepped out onto the street. Brithwen was nowhere in sight.

"How are you?" he inquired as he approached her. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth when Elfwine broke into a stream of baby talk, eager to babble to the visitor.

"I am doing well, thank you," Gúthwyn said, grinning at her nephew. "What of yourself?"

He shrugged. Both of them were painfully aware of how strained their conversations were in comparison to how they had once been. "Fine, as usual."

The two of them stood there for a moment, awkwardly shifting their feet, until at last Tun broke the silence and blurted out, "Is it true that you are to marry Prince Elphir?"

Gúthwyn froze, not having expected the question. Even Tun appeared surprised at his daring. His cheeks flushed, and he hastily directed his gaze toward the ground.

"W-Where did you hear that?" Gúthwyn at last stammered, her face as red as his. Elfwine yanked mightily at her hair, but she barely noticed him over the painful racing of her heart.

"Lebryn told me," was his quiet response. "He said he overheard Hammel and Cobryn discussing it."

Gúthwyn sighed, feeling a horrible sensation of guilt working its way into her stomach. "Tun…" she began.

"Is it true?" he persisted, his voice slightly raised.

Swallowing, Gúthwyn said, "My brother and Prince Imrahil are in negotiations."

Tun did not say anything, and waited for her to continue. She sighed again, and finished. "If they go according to plan, then yes. Sometime next year we shall be wedded."

Her heart clenched to see the color draining out of his face, though his voice was calm—if a bit unsteady—as he asked, "Why him?"

For a moment she did not answer, struggling to think of something that would even be remotely adequate to express her mixed feelings or explain her reasoning. She glanced down at Elfwine as if he could tell her what to say, but he merely stuck his fingers in his mouth and gazed at her reproachfully.

"Is it because he is a prince?" Tun inquired softly, the hurt in his gaze heart-wrenching to behold.

"No," Gúthwyn immediately said, trying to ignore the lump in her throat. "It is because… Éomer wants me to get married, and at least Elphir and I are… friends."

That was not even half of it, and nowhere close to what Tun deserved to hear. After all, the two of them had been best friends for so long that to say Elphir held a candle to her champion was a lie. She could see that protest forming in his gaze, and slowly dying as they both thought of Brithwen. Gúthwyn wanted to tell him everything, to inform him even of Borogor, and to say that she would never be content in Dol Amroth, but she knew that if she said anymore the tears would start blurring her vision.

Tun watched her for a few seconds, as if aware that she had not told him everything, but when she did not speak he at last inclined his head. "I should be going," he muttered. "I was heading back to the training grounds."

Gúthwyn nodded. They had both been there earlier that day, but her session had been brief. Lothíriel and Éomer's meeting had begun only an hour past noon, and she had volunteered to watch Elfwine.

"Have a good day, my lady," Tun murmured then.

"You too, Tun," Gúthwyn replied, smiling sadly at him.

He bowed, and with that turned away. He had gone nearly twenty feet from her when she suddenly thought of something and called, "Wait!"

Her champion stopped, and slowly faced her again.

"When we next see each other on the training grounds, will you spar with me?"

There was a long pause between them, in which she could hear snatches of various conversations spoken between the other people in the street. Elfwine chimed in, prattling along happily to himself.

"I would love to, my lady," Tun at length said, and his steps were decidedly lighter as he bowed again and continued down the road.

Gúthwyn stood there watching him until Elfwine started pulling at her hair once more. "All right, little one," she conceded, and took one last look at Tun before returning all of her attentions to the baby in her arms. "Let us go back and find your parents. Even they can only stay cooped inside for so long."

Elfwine giggled at this, though his amusement was more likely due to the butterfly that had twittered around them for a few seconds until finding better prospects amidst a group of young girls. Gúthwyn felt her spirits lifting as she gazed at her nephew; yet she could not help but recall the hurt look in Tun's eyes when she had confirmed the possibility of a marriage to Prince Elphir.

"_Is it because he is a prince?"_ Her champion's words echoed hauntingly in her mind. As a royal guard, he was socially inferior to Elphir. She would never have chosen the prince for his status, but clearly Tun had been insulted by the thought that she had.

The musings of another person came back to her. _"He still loves you, you know."_ Gúthwyn felt horrible for Brithwen, the wife forced to live out her days in recognition of the fact that she was second to another woman in her husband's heart. She felt even worse for Tun, whom she had unknowingly led to believe that she returned his affections. Refusing his proposal was one of the worst things she had ever done, the only exception being her voluntary stay in Haldor's bed.

She felt a sick flush of shame, but at that moment her name was called.

"Gúthwyn!"

Éomund's daughter glanced up to see Éowyn and Faramir approaching her. They were holding hands, and his arm was wrapped around her waist. For the briefest instant, Gúthwyn felt a surprising surge of envy. She had never done that with Borogor; nor would she ever be able to.

"Hello, sister," she nevertheless greeted Éowyn smilingly. But even her feigned happiness, brought almost to perfection over the years, faltered when she laid her eyes on Faramir. "My lord," she said stiffly.

He nodded at her awkwardly, and was silent.

"How is our favorite nephew?" Éowyn asked then, drawing close so that she could place a kiss on the baby's brow.

"Excellent," Gúthwyn replied, tickling his chin and eliciting laughter from the king's heir.

"That is good to hear," Éowyn said. "Have you been a good boy?" she asked Elfwine gaily.

His response was to reach forward, seize a handful of her locks, and yank it towards him as forcefully as he could. Even Faramir could not help laughing at Éowyn's predicament; her eyes were round in astonishment.

"He does that to everyone who has long hair," Gúthwyn assured her sister, helping to prize Elfwine's fingers from the golden tresses. "Even Éomer is not safe."

Éowyn chuckled, moving a safe distance away from Elfwine. "I think he could stand to have an inch cut off."

"It will be another year before he considers the idea. After all, he did just trim his beard a couple of weeks ago," Gúthwyn said fondly, only mildly exasperated at her brother's ways.

"Perhaps Lothíriel can put some sense in him," Éowyn mused, and cast a sly glance at Faramir. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. Evidently, the two of them were remembering a little joke of some sorts, one that Gúthwyn was not privy to.

"_I think you could sleep through an entire battle," Borogor said to her, and she gave a wistful sigh._

"_If only I could sleep through training practice."_

_The vestige of a smile tugged at his lips, but there could be no laughter in Mordor._

Gúthwyn shook her head, clearing it of such thoughts. At the same time, Éowyn remarked, "She and Éomer seem to be quite happy with each other."

It took Éomund's youngest daughter a few seconds to remember that her sister was speaking of Lothíriel.

"Aye, they do," she answered, eager to seize on the topic. "Indeed, why should they be troubled with such an adorable son?"

Éowyn grinned, as did Faramir. "You are quite enamored of him, sister."

"Yes, I am," Gúthwyn confirmed unabashedly, holding Elfwine tighter. He tolerated the gesture, compensating for it by clutching a fistful of her hair. "Luckily, Éomer and Lothíriel have asked me to watch him whenever they attend meetings—which is quite often. His nurse is only available for a short amount of time."

"Éomer is the lucky one," Faramir said, "if he has found so able a helper."

His words were meant to be a compliment, and Gúthwyn flushed, but it was an embarrassed and angry red that crept across her cheeks. She could barely stand to hear him speaking to her in such a casual tone of voice, as if that evening in Ithilien had never happened. She may have forgiven him for slaying Borogor, but she would remember the crime whenever she looked at him.

Faramir seemed to realize that he had overstepped his boundaries, and did not continue the conversation. Éowyn, who was aware of the tensions between her sister and husband but not the cause, also was quiet. For a small spell, the only sounds were the chatter of the people around them and Elfwine's occasional gurgling.

"Éowyn," Gúthwyn at length began, after casting around for something to say, "have you noticed anything… odd about Lothíriel?"

The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them: Faramir was Lothíriel's cousin. She blushed heavily, yet though he looked at her curiously he did not inquire.

"What do you mean, 'odd'?" Éowyn asked, knitting her brow.

Gúthwyn hesitated, glancing at Faramir and wondering how much of what she said would be relayed to the queen.

He understood her apprehension, and with a nod of his head he vowed, "I will not say a word to anyone."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said, relieved. But even then, her voice lowered as she continued. "I do not think she likes me at all."

Éowyn arched an eyebrow. "I did observe that she was not as warm to you as she was to me, but mayhap that was because she wished to welcome me properly."

Gúthwyn sighed. In all of the letters she had written to Éowyn, she had not once mentioned the growing rivalry between her and the queen. Cobryn was the only person with whom she had discussed it, and even now she was not sure whether she should be informing her sister of it. But a larger part if her wanted Éowyn's advice. Deep down, she knew that she was no match against Lothíriel, and she wished to avoid a potentially difficult situation—even a dangerous one.

"I do not believe that is the case," she said heavily, meeting Éowyn's eyes. "Every time she looks at me… I cannot help but think that she hates me. And she does it in a way that no one else but I can detect it."

Éowyn seemed perplexed by this. "What cause would she have to hate you?"

Again, Gúthwyn paused, debating whether or not she should continue to claim that her thoughts were only a hunch, or if she should tell Éowyn of all that Lothíriel had done to her.

_No,_ she decided. As much as she desired to confide in her sister, she would not badmouth the queen behind her back. Éowyn would have to form her own opinion: Gúthwyn would not stoop to sullying Lothíriel's reputation, though the Valar knew that the other woman had not spared her from the same discourtesy.

"I am not sure," she said at length. "As far as I can recall, I have neither said nor done anything to injure her."

Her own conscience nagged at her. _You humiliated her on the training grounds… Because of a misunderstanding that you have not corrected, she thinks you are a whore; and now that you are to marry her brother, she would naturally be concerned for his honor and loathe you even more…_

"Has she given you any sign of her feelings, other than condescending looks?" Faramir asked then, the question so unexpected that for a moment, Gúthwyn merely blinked. At last gathering her wits, she opened her mouth to answer yes and abruptly changed it to, "No."

Faramir looked reluctant. "I have rarely seen my cousin of late," he said slowly, "but we often visited each other as children. Even then, she was very clever. It was not, ah, wise to insult her. She would either retort with a better one, or she would find a different way to ensure that you regretted making a jest at her expense."

Gúthwyn nodded in spite of herself. His description sounded exactly like the Lothíriel that she knew.

"If she has not acted against you," Faramir said, looking more discomforted by the minute, "then perhaps she merely considers you an annoyance, and is of little mind to further your acquaintance. Yet I will say this in her defense: By nature she is aloof, as someone of her station must be. Although the talents of a lady came easily to her, it was always difficult for her to befriend another, for she trusts so few that you could likely count them on one hand."

Gúthwyn mulled this over, wondering at the new side of the queen that had just been revealed. More than ever, she wished she had kept her mouth shut. Éowyn was watching her closely, as if perceiving the scent of a lie about her.

"Well," Gúthwyn said, in a tone that she hoped would end all discussion of the topic. "Elfwine and I should be going inside."

She glanced down at her nephew as she spoke. He had been dozing peacefully in her arms, but at the sound of his name, he blearily opened his eyes and yawned.

"Éomer and Lothíriel's meeting appeared to be coming to a close," Éowyn informed her. "They will probably be searching for you soon."

Gúthwyn nodded. "Enjoy your walk, then," she said.

"Thank you," Éowyn and Faramir chorused. Then they smiled so gently at each other that Gúthwyn's heart burned in an envy that shocked her. It was raw and powerful, pure jealousy that coursed through her veins. _Why can I not be so in love with the man I am to be bound to until my dying day?_

A sigh escaped her as she turned away. It was deflated, drained of the bitter energy that had fueled her just seconds ago. _Because Borogor is dead._

_He has been gone for almost six years! Is it not time now to forget him? Find love in the arms of another, you fool! Cast his memory aside!_

This unbidden thought distressed her so much that she felt tears pricking at her eyes as she silently apologized to Borogor. How could she have uttered such a thing, even if it was to herself? Borogor was the reason she had survived Mordor, the person who had been her savior so many times that the occasions were blurring together in her mind. He had done so much for her that, no matter how hard she tried, she would not have been able to pay him back in a hundred years.

"I will never forget him," she promised to Elfwine, and as he watched bemusedly she swore never to love Elphir.

The next instant, however, she regretted her promise. The prince had always shown her the utmost respect and kindness, even while Lothíriel and the customs of his people frowned upon her ways. He deserved nothing less than the same treatment, at the minimum. Was it his fault that, for him, their friendship had developed into something more? It was wrong to deny him a caring wife; would it be so hard for her to love him?

_Yes,_ every fiber in her body said, only increasing her guilt. Right then and there, she decided to at least attempt to reciprocate his feelings, no matter how much her heart argued against it. She owed it to her future husband.

"Gúthwyn!"

Immediately recognizing Éomer's voice, she looked up to see him approaching her. "Hello, brother," she greeted him, banishing all thoughts of Elphir for the time being. "How was the council?"

"All is well," Éomer replied, and smiled as Elfwine began squirming in Gúthwyn's arms, valiantly straining to reach his father. "Come here, son," he murmured as Gúthwyn handed the infant over, only somewhat reluctant to let her nephew go. Yet she felt no remorse as she watched Elfwine laugh happily, then squeal in delight as Éomer whirled him around.

_I wish I had a baby,_ she thought wistfully, and such was her mood that she did not berate herself for the sentiment.


	60. No Place Like Home

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixty:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Sixty**

On the last evening of Éowyn and Faramir's visit, Gúthwyn had a nightmare. She awoke with vivid pictures of Borogor's death in her mind, clutching at her chest as she gasped for air. No matter how tightly she squeezed her eyes shut, the image of his body collapsing to the ground repeated over and over in front of her.

At length she gave up, and decided to go for a walk in the hopes of easing her tumultuous thoughts. Even before she had managed to fall asleep, the night had been miserable. Throughout dinner Éowyn and Faramir had talked happily of returning home—it made Gúthwyn feel sick to hear her sister refer to Emyn Arnen as "home," when she had been born and raised in the Riddermark—and had shared so many loving glances that she had been unable to find any part of her dinner appetizing.

To make matters even worse, after they had all gone to bed she had heard the sounds of their love-making through the wall. The groans and sighs, accompanied by the creaking of their bed, had paralyzed her with horror for several minutes until she had finally gotten enough control over herself to crawl to the chamber pot. The room now reeked of vomit.

_I shall have to clean it in the morning,_ Gúthwyn thought morosely, slipping into the throne room. _Otherwise, the maids will find out and tell Éomer._ And since her brother had already been concerned enough that she had hardly eaten dinner, she did not wish to worry him any further. He was not even aware that she so much as disliked Faramir.

There were only a few people in the great hall as she stole through it. All of them were asleep: Cobryn, in his usual position next to a large pillar; the few servants who worked full time at Meduseld; and a small group of Rangers, who had accompanied their lord and lady to Rohan. Mercifully, she had recognized none of them from the day they had ambushed her scouting troop. Perhaps Faramir had chosen them for that reason—after all, neither of them wanted Éowyn to find out what had transpired on the seventh of June, in the year 3018 of the Third Age.

Her footsteps, muffled by a pair of soft slippers that she wore, were inaudible to the ear. Not a soul stirred as she crept across the room, and even when she pulled at the doors no one noticed that the king's sister was not sleeping like the rest of the household. Nor, for that matter, was another.

When Gúthwyn stepped outside, she had a few seconds to inhale the cold midnight air before she realized that she was not alone. Her breath caught in her throat, and every muscle in her body froze as she saw the silhouette of Borogor's killer on the landing. By the time she had brought herself under control enough to understand that she needed to leave _now_, it was too late.

At the sound of the door opening, Faramir turned and saw her standing there. His gaze paralyzed her, so that for nearly a full minute she could not move or even speak. Coils of nausea tightened themselves in her stomach.

"What are you doing here?" Faramir inquired, his eyes widening in surprise.

"It is my home," Gúthwyn snapped indignantly, broken out of her spell. "I have the right to go where I please. What are _you_ doing here?"

If Faramir was bothered by the rudeness of her speech, he did not show it. Instead he sighed and said, "Perhaps we are here for the same reason."

Gúthwyn stiffened. "What do you mean?" she at last managed, wrapping her arms around herself and wishing that she had brought a blanket. Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest, the blood rushing to her ears as she saw Borogor falling to the foliage.

Faramir sighed again, and took a step forward. Gúthwyn flinched, but she could not back away from him: She was already pressed against one of the doors.

"I would say that we were troubled by the same dream," he said quietly. "For that is why I am here."

A shiver rippled through her body; her voice was vulnerable, timid as she asked, "You still see that day?"

"Never was there a man that I regret killing more," Faramir replied.

Gúthwyn recoiled, instantly cursing herself for having shown such weakness. To hear him speaking of _regret_—as if it was only a mistake, as if it had been Borogor's fault that he had been shot, his own stupidity that had cost him his life—was more than she could bear.

"You have no idea!" she choked out, and stormed towards the stairs, intending to get as far away from him as possible. Going back inside was not an option: The walls would only close in on her once more, and she would not be able to fall asleep for fear of suffocating.

Yet as she passed her sister's husband, his hand shot out and grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

"Let go of me!" Gúthwyn hissed, trying to pull away. Faramir persisted, tightening his grip so that she could not escape.

"It is not safe for you to be roaming the streets by yourself," he said.

Though the Steward's intentions were honest, Gúthwyn loathed them and spat, "You presume too much. I have never been _ambushed_ in this city."

She used the word on purpose, and felt a rush of twisted joy as his face became taut. To further nail in her point, she added, "My people are honest and trustworthy."

"You said you had forgiven me," Faramir ground out, the closest thing to an angry word she had gotten from him.

"I forgave you for Éowyn," Gúthwyn retorted. "I tolerate your company in her presence because I must, though with every look you give her I feel sick. Now that she is nowhere in sight, I have no desire for anything associated with you to be inflicted on me."

With that, she made to yank herself from his grasp, but he did not release her. Her fury momentarily gave way to panic, and her voice wavered as she ordered, "Unhand me!"

"Gúthwyn, please!" he exclaimed, drawing close enough to her so that she had to tilt her head up in order to see his eyes. "Why are you so bitter?" he asked softly. "When last we met, you had no unkind word to say to me; now, it is as if you would no sooner look at me than kill me. Is it truly his death that troubles you?"

"_Why_ am I so bitter?" Gúthwyn demanded, on the verge of hysteria. "You took the one man I loved away from me! Thanks to you, I-I have to marry Elphir because Éomer wants me to, not because I have given my heart to him! I will have to leave my home, my family, and my friends as a result of what _you_ did! I-I have to lie awake at night a-and listen to you… m-making _love_ to my sister, and know that… that… I will have to do that with…"

Her voice broke, and before she could stop herself her face turned wet. Tears of hatred, mortification, and misery streamed down her cheeks, nearly scalding them with their intensity. Horrified to be crying in front of Faramir, she twisted away from him, clamping her free hand over her mouth so that he might not hear the muffled sobs escaping her.

Even now, none of her tears were for Borogor. She was afraid to cry for him; she was afraid of what might be unleashed, of what she had buried over the last four and a half years. Her sadness was for herself, for being forced to marry someone whom she did not love. This time next year, she would be living by the Sea, minding the affairs of another realm by day and lying beneath Elphir at night, struggling to pretend that she welcomed his advances.

"Gúthwyn," she heard Faramir saying, his voice as far off as the shores of Dol Amroth. She had never been to the Sea before. _Lothíriel will want me to drown to it,_ she thought. _Maybe I will._

"Gúthwyn!" Faramir repeated, gripping her other arm and pulling her back to face him. The action was as effective as if he had slapped her.

_What are you doing?_ she yelled silently. _This entire week you have been falling apart at the drop of a hat! First Éowyn, now Faramir—how did you become so weak?_

Summoning up more willpower than she had used in months, Gúthwyn became perfectly still. Just as Cobryn had taught her, she took long, deep breaths, counting to ten each time and exhaling slowly. All the while she ignored Faramir, concentrating on maintaining her calm rather than on the increasing pressure around her wrists. Gradually, her tears began to dry, until the places they had once been turned cool in a passing breeze.

At last, she inhaled and focused her gaze on Faramir. Almost immediately she had the sensation that her eyes were about to well up with tears. She blinked rapidly.

"Gúthwyn," Faramir said again, this time loud and clear.

It astounded her to hear how calm her own voice was as she said, "Please let go of me."

Perhaps he sensed that she was on the brink of becoming hysterical again, for he instantly complied. "Is all this," he said quietly, "because you do not wish to marry Elphir?"

"I do not love him," Gúthwyn answered woodenly. "I never have. I never will. It is unfair to him, for he has always been good to me. Yet Éomer would have me wed him, and I have already given my word."

Faramir's eyes met hers. "My cousin will treat you well."

She was close enough to reach forward only a few inches and touch him, but she felt as if she were all alone on the landing. "That is what they all say."

He opened his mouth, but suddenly she no longer felt liking talking to or even yelling at him. She wanted to return to her bed, lie down, and cast away all memories of the night. If she was lucky, she would sleep dreamlessly.

"Excuse me," she said before Faramir could speak. "I am going inside." Her words were preternaturally tranquil; she wondered how long she could keep up the façade.

"Wait!" he exclaimed as she backed away from him slowly and put one hand on the door. She paused, and looked at him.

For a moment, the two of them stood there, lit only by the misty rays of the stars and the twinkling beam of the moon. Faramir's face was half-hidden by shadow as he said, "Should you ever visit Éowyn, I will take you to his grave."

Gúthwyn pushed the door open and fled into the sanctuary of the Golden Hall.

* * *

"Try and eat a little more," Éowyn coaxed her sister, gesturing towards the plate with a half-eaten slice of bread. 

"I am not hungry," Gúthwyn replied quietly, and yawned the next second. "Indeed, I am barely awake."

"You are too thin," Éomer countered bluntly. "Eat."

Éowyn watched as the younger woman sighed, and picked at her bread for a short amount of time until she lost the will to try anymore. Up close, Éomund's oldest daughter thought she appeared exhausted and pale as a ghost. Dark circles under her eyes indicated fatigue and a perpetual lack of sleep. Her bony wrist, just visible beneath the left sleeve of her gown, suggested that she received the nutrition of a starving peasant—not a king's sister. She looked awful.

"Gúthwyn," Éowyn said, her voice gentler than Éomer's. "You must eat. Our brother is right: you are too thin. Please, have something else. The stew is excellent; why not try some of that?"

Beneath the scrutiny of everyone at the table, which also included Faramir and Lothíriel, Gúthwyn seemed worn and frail, her shoulders hunched over as if she wished to disappear. Her diet had been subject to criticism by both siblings ever since the beginning of lunch, when she had swayed dangerously while entering the room and stumbled several feet before regaining control of herself. Even then, her eyes had been dazed and glassy, threatening of an imminent faint.

"I am not hungry," Gúthwyn repeated, her words hardly above a whisper.

Éowyn glanced worriedly at her husband. Faramir smiled sympathetically and took her hand, massaging the fingers reassuringly. Despite her concern for Gúthwyn, she felt herself relaxing from his gentle touch. There was not a moment that she regretted marrying him. He was perfect in every way: courteous and well-spoken, always given to surprising her at odd times with sweet compliments and touching gestures. She was complete with him, and every day that she awoke at his side she knew she was moving farther away from the cold shadow of the East.

"Sister," Éomer said then, interrupting her thoughts with an unusually stern tone. Éowyn looked at him, but her brother's attention was directed towards Gúthwyn. "You hardly ate last night. How can you not be hungry?"

Gúthwyn gave a small shrug and opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off. "You were fine last week," he accused. "Yet overall, you have not been eating well for a month. What is wrong with you?"

There was a very pregnant pause after he said this, in which he realized his mistake. As Gúthwyn swallowed and stared down at her plate, Éowyn met her brother's eyes and sent him a warning glare. At this point, she was beginning to feel as if she could fill several scrolls of parchment with her baby sister's problems—and she probably did not know all of them.

Sighing, Éomer said, "Never mind. Eat what you will."

Gúthwyn raised her head, the relief in her face evident. But when she spoke, it was to Lothíriel. "How was Elfwine this morning?"

Lothíriel, who had been stonily silent the entire time Gúthwyn's eating habits were discussed, seemed just as eager to seize the topic as the other woman. "He was fine," she answered, only the slightest hint of coolness in her voice. "He threw a small tantrum when he woke up, but after he had been fed he calmed down."

"That is good," Gúthwyn commented. The two of them descended into a conversation about Elfwine in which it was clear—to Éowyn at least, for Éomer was busy eating—that they were only sustaining it for the sake of normalcy, and so they did not venture into more uncomfortable territory.

She did not pay much attention to the anecdotes about Elfwine's behavior, though typically she would have been amused by them. Instead, her mind drifted to the plans she and Faramir had for the rest of the day. Once they had finished lunch, they would exchange farewells with everyone and depart. Before she married Faramir, she would have scoffed at anyone who suggested that a realm other than Rohan could be her home. Yet today, she would feel no remorse at leaving behind the place of her birth. She was looking forward to returning to Emyn Arnen, where she could walk in the gardens hand in hand with her husband.

As if sensing her thoughts, Faramir leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Soon we shall be home."

"Aye," she agreed in a low tone of voice. "I hope the journey there will be as pleasant as it was coming here."

"I think it will," Faramir said, and gave the devilish grin that she had come to associate with various forms of pleasure not suitable for discussion at the dinner table. "Should I do away with the guards and allow myself some time on your pallet?"

"Who says you are invited?" Éowyn retorted, smacking his arm playfully.

"Do I detect hostility?" Faramir smirked, slipping an arm around her waist and touching her right side exactly where she was the most vulnerable.

Suddenly, it became almost impossible to keep herself from surrendering to him right then and there. It took pure strength of will to not melt in his arms as she muttered slyly, "I can be bribed."

"Oh, really?" Faramir raised an eyebrow, putting the smallest amount of pressure on her waist.

"That will get you nowhere," she managed, despite having the strongest urge to abandon their banter and kiss him full on the lips. Only the fact that her siblings and Lothíriel were present held her back.

"It will not?" Faramir asked, beginning to trace light circles on her side.

"It will not," Éowyn confirmed, wanting to both push him away and to let him do what he would to her. In his hands, she had nothing to fear; no cages could bind her. Perhaps she sounded like a lovesick fool, but he had truly set her free from the horrors of war.

Faramir seemed to be contemplating her refusal, the effort it took to make well known to both of them. "I see a massage in your future."

She made a show of appearing uninterested, but her heartbeat was quickening. _Damn him,_ she thought, cursing how weak he could make her in public places. _He always knows how best to tease me!_

"And then," Faramir continued, his voice so low that she could barely hear it, "if the massage is to your liking, I will give you something better."

"What might that be?" Éowyn inquired, struggling to ignore the tingling between her legs.

"It is a surprise," Faramir responded mysteriously, and allowed her a few seconds to think over that infuriating remark before asking, "Do we have a deal?"

She pretended to consider. "I believe so," she at last said. "You are a master negotiator, Lord Faramir."

"You make me drive my bargains up," Faramir replied. "I daresay you deserve no small amount of credit, Lady Éowyn."

Éowyn laughed at this, and glanced up. Lothíriel was trying to engage Éomer in a conversation, but he was only giving vague answers. The majority of his concentration was focused on Gúthwyn, whose plate did not appear any cleaner. She was staring at it as if willing the contents to disappear. Every now and then, Lothíriel would give a soft sigh. Its meaning was lost on Éomer, who had never been the most observant of men, but Éowyn could tell that the queen was irritated by the lack of attention she was receiving from her husband.

She took a moment to surreptitiously observe the woman. Gúthwyn had said earlier that Lothíriel did not like her; now, Éowyn wondered if that were not indeed the case. She had noticed the queen throwing a positively foul glare at her sister when Éomer had started interrogating her about the amount of food on her plate—yet perhaps that had been a trick of the light, for the next instant her collected posture was securely in place, as if it had never once left. There had been no further evidence of such ill feelings throughout the duration of her stay. Lothíriel had always behaved appropriately, if reserved, to Gúthwyn at mealtimes. They did not seem to interact elsewhere.

_Perhaps she is imagining things,_ Éowyn mused. It would not come as a surprise to her, after all that her sister had been through, if she was now utterly paranoid of everything. Lothíriel was certainly polite enough, and had clearly been raised properly. It was difficult for Éowyn to conceive her brother's wife as outwardly malignant to Gúthwyn, even if she did privately dislike the other woman or frown upon her conduct. Which, Éowyn reminded herself, was less ladylike than was normally expected from someone of her status. Thus, it was not impossible to think that Lothíriel was disconcerted by her lack of propriety.

_Ah well,_ Éowyn at length thought. _I doubt I need to intervene on anyone's behalf._

She took another look at Gúthwyn. It struck her then how alarmingly thin the woman had become. Her collarbone thrust out sharply against her skin, and her shoulder bones were clearly visible through the fabric of her dress. She had obviously not been eating well for weeks. A good night's sleep had apparently also become a rarity: she seemed as if she could barely remain awake, and was constantly yawning.

Detecting her sister's gaze, Gúthwyn glanced up. As a pink flush spread across her cheeks and her eyes darted back and forth between the White Lady and the Steward of Gondor, Éowyn realized that she had heard most of their bantering. They must not have been as discreet as they thought. The look of revulsion now on Gúthwyn's face was evident, even though she quickly stared back down at her plate. Her small frame was taut, and one of her hands was clenching the napkin so tightly that it had turned as white as the linen.

With a surge of pity, Éowyn remembered how horrified the younger woman had been to discover that her older sister enjoyed making love to her husband. She could not understand how anyone would view the act as pleasurable; Éowyn instinctively knew that, no matter how many times she reminded Gúthwyn that Haldor had violated her, she would still cringe from another man's caress. Despite everything that Elphir might do to make her comfortable, she would always dread the nights when he was inside her—regardless of how gently he kissed her, how little and painlessly he moved.

It sickened her to think that the cause of Gúthwyn's fears lay in Haldor's bed. It was almost impossible to believe that an Elf had treated her baby sister so monstrously; that he had beaten her, subdued her, alternately starved and force-fed her, and raped her whenever he saw fit. Yet Éomer himself had seen the scars from the knife wounds on her back, and Éowyn would never doubt that Gúthwyn had spoken the truth. The proof was all too obvious in her actions: how she refused to sleep without at least five candles in her room, how she flinched whenever someone accidentally touched her, how unexpected noises made her jump in terror.

_Gúthwyn,_ she thought, _why were you the one chosen eleven years ago? Why not Éomer or I?_

For some reason, the man who had torn their sister away from them had not taken Éomer, a strong man close to his prime; nor had he kidnapped her, who at sixteen would have at least provided some amusement for the captor. Ignoring the chill that swept through her body at the thought, for she would have eagerly given herself up in order to save Gúthwyn, Éowyn reflected that the man had selected the one person who was the least capable of becoming a slave and bearing such a burden.

From the first day of her life, Gúthwyn had been sheltered. Théodwyn and Éomund had doted on her—they all had, for it was impossible to resist the gap-toothed toddler begging to sit on their laps. When their parents had died, Éomer had become even more protective of his sisters, especially the one who was too young to remember the funeral in which their old life had been buried along with their mother.

Upon their arrival at Meduseld, Gúthwyn had been awed by her surroundings, and soon shed her sadness in favor of determining to be the friend of every soldier and advisor that had passed through their uncle's hall. Without a doubt, she had succeeded. Théodred had taken her under his wing, and because of her age Théoden had always been worried about her. There were few men in the king's employment who could resist smiling whenever she so much as spoke.

Éowyn and Éomer, on the other hand, were independent, and had no need or want for the attention that their younger sister received. It was enough for them to take care of her, and ensure that she lacked for nothing that she desired—unless it was a later bedtime. Gúthwyn had never taken their love for granted, and constantly relied on it for assurance and support. They were her security blanket, the thing that protected her from the harsh realities of the outside world in the growing shadow of war. And she had been taken from them all too soon.

"Éowyn, are you all right?"

Faramir's voice brought her out of her musings. She mentally shook her head and focused on him, smiling. "I am sorry—what were you saying?"

"I have been trying to get your attention for nearly a minute," he replied. "May I ask what was keeping you so entertained?"

"I simply got lost in my thoughts," Éowyn explained. Faramir knew next to nothing about Gúthwyn's past; the only things she had told him were that her sister had taken Hammel and Haiweth into her custody after their parents' deaths, and that she had been captured by the Enemy after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Faramir was aware that Gúthwyn had also dressed as a man to accompany the troops, and had thus assumed that she had been discovered and taken as a prisoner during the retreat of the Dark Lord's forces.

However, despite the fact that her husband remained oblivious to many aspects of her sister's life, Éowyn could not help but feel that there was something between the two of them that she was unable to place her finger on. She in no way suspected them of having an affair, for Faramir's devotion to her was unswerving, and Gúthwyn would never do such a thing.

Nay, the emotions she always detected during their interactions were barely veiled hostility on Gúthwyn's part, and quiet remorse from Faramir. Éowyn wondered at this, but something within her spoke against bringing the issue up with either of them. She did not understand this part of her, but had decided long ago that unless a serious rift or argument occurred between them, she would hold her silence.

"Éowyn?"

Once again, she realized that she had been ignoring her husband. Shame washed over her, and this time she whispered in his ear, "I was wondering what your surprise might be."

Faramir smirked, and under the cover of the table placed his hand suggestively on her thigh. "It would not be a surprise if I told you."

"I am more than content to let my imagination fill in where you will not satisfy me," Éowyn replied, her words truthful. With Faramir, his plans for her could be anything. He could either present her with a book about healing herbs, the lore of which she craved, or he could make love to her the entire night, leaving her breathless with lust and delight. Her husband had the tendency of switching back and forth between the sweet and deliciously sinful, both of which she welcomed and anticipated equally.

"Oh, I think you will be very satisfied," Faramir promised, looking pleased with himself. From the sparkle in his eyes, Éowyn guessed that his secret had more to do with the mischievous side of him than the one that held her close to him at night.

"I am looking forward to it then," she murmured, slipping her hand in his.

Someone cleared their throat again, and they glanced up almost guiltily to see Éomer watching them. Everyone had finished eating long ago—it was time to leave. Gúthwyn, Éowyn noticed, was still watching her plate as if she were attempting to win a staring contest against it.

Yet she at last had to concede defeat, and did so with a sigh as they all stood up. Éowyn's eyes quickly observed that her bread was not finished.

"Gúthwyn," Éomer said than, obviously seeing the less than empty condition of her plate. "You cannot even finish that one slice?"

Gúthwyn cringed at the accusation, but bowed her head and replied, "I am not hungry."

Éomer sighed, and cast a despairing look towards Éowyn. She gave a small, sympathetic smile. Something was troubling their sister, and yet they could not fix it.

"Perhaps you and Lothíriel should go outside," her brother suggested, indicating her and Faramir. "I will be with you in a moment."

Éowyn nodded, knowing fully well that Éomer was about to berate their sister heavily for her eating habits. When Gúthwyn sent her pleading looks, she firmly ignored them. _Not this time, baby sister,_ she thought. _It is for your own good._ "Let us go, then," she declared, and entwined her arm in Faramir's.

Lothíriel led them out of the hall, her back perfectly straight. She had not said a word of complaint to her husband, but though Éowyn could not often discern the other woman's mood, she imagined that she caught a trace of annoyance in the rigidity of her back. The queen did not speak as she waited for the guards to open the doors; nor did she entertain her cousin and his wife with more than a few sentences of polite conversation.

Within five minutes, Éomer strode outside, followed at a slower pace by Gúthwyn. The latter looked as if she had suddenly developed a head cold. Her face was subdued, even more so as she met Éowyn's eyes. She hung back as the king approached his guests.

"Well, sister," Éomer said with a sigh, "it was good to see you again."

"Thank you, brother," Éowyn answered, and stepped forward to embrace him. "It was my pleasure. Faramir and I greatly appreciated your hospitality."

He placed a kiss on her brow and stepped back. "It was _my_ pleasure," he said firmly. "You are welcome back at any time. We will both miss you." Then he lowered his voice. "Shall I hope for a third member of the family when next we see each other?"

Éowyn felt a blush coming to her cheeks, but the idea of having a baby was something she was looking forward to immensely. _My time will come,_ she thought, glowing happily. "I am certainly doing so."

Éomer laughed a little. "Then I wish you and Faramir the best of luck," he said. "Have as safe journey."

"Thank you," Éowyn murmured, and smiled at him one last time. He nodded, and then turned to bid Faramir farewell. As he did so, Gúthwyn stepped forward.

"Will you come back soon?" she asked anxiously. "We hardly see each other anymore."

"I shall try my best," Éowyn said firmly, and stepped forward to wrap her arms around the other woman. She could feel several of Gúthwyn's bones through her dress. None of her disgust was reflected in her tone as she added, "I would love for you to come to Emyn Arnen. You have but to name the month, and it is yours."

Gúthwyn nodded, though Éowyn had a feeling that her offer would not be taken up anytime soon. "I will miss you," she murmured, her words hitching for a brief second as she rested her dark head on Éowyn's shoulder.

Suddenly, Éowyn was reminded of the time her baby sister had first realized that she would never see their parents again. Only three years of age when they had died, she had not at first understood why Éomund had not returned from his riding expedition, nor why Théodwyn lay as if asleep on the bier that had been prepared for her burial. At the funeral, she had met Théodred for the first time, and had been occupied with staring at him curiously while their mother disappeared beneath the mound of dirt that was to be her final resting place.

It was not until two days later that Éowyn, standing outside of the home she would never see again, felt a frantic tug on the hem of her dress and looked down to see Gúthwyn gazing up at her. The toddler's bottom lip had trembled, and without further preamble she had lifted her arms and begun bawling at the top of her lungs. Though Éowyn had picked her up as swiftly as she might, and cradled her gently in her arms, nothing could console her. She had wailed for her mama and papa, screwing her face up in misery and refusing to be calmed for nearly an hour.

Now, twenty years later, Éowyn beheld her sister and thought that she was just as fragile as an adult as she had been as a child.

If not more so. "Gúthwyn," she said, still holding the younger woman tightly. "Do you remember anything of our mother and father?"

Pulling back slightly, Gúthwyn knitted her brow in confusion. "No," she replied. "Well, I think I heard Théodwyn laughing once… yet other than that, I cannot recall a thing. Why?"

Éowyn shook her head. "It is nothing," she answered with a sigh. "I was just wondering."

Gúthwyn nodded, still seeming a little puzzled. "I suppose this is farewell, then."

"Yes, it is," Éowyn murmured, and hugged Gúthwyn once more. "Take care of yourself, baby sister," she whispered. "Please try and eat some more."

"That is what Éomer told me," Gúthwyn said heavily, stepping out of Éowyn's arms. Her eyes were downcast as she added, "I expect… I expect that Elphir will, also."

Éowyn felt a surge of pity for her. Although she believed that, in the long run, having a husband to support her would be best, she did not envy the woman her wedding night. While Faramir had taken her gently, and even brought her to pleasure, she knew that Gúthwyn would be terrified of Elphir and experience no such sensations in the act of making love. The prince, also, would learn some unsettling things about his new bride: that she was not a virgin, and that her body was ruined by the scars of her horrific past.

Yet "Good luck" was all she said to Gúthwyn. "I shall be at the wedding."

"_If_ there is a wedding," Gúthwyn responded, though without much conviction in her voice.

"You will not regret it," Éowyn promised whole-heartedly, wanting more than anything for her to see that everything would be all right in the end. Yet she might as well have been speaking to a wall.

"That is what everyone tells me," Gúthwyn answered, sighing. The look in her eyes seemed to read, _I thought you would be different._

"Gúthwyn—" Éowyn began, but it was too late. Her sister gave one last, small smile and turned away. Before Éowyn could follow—what she would say, she did not know; yet anything to ensure that her baby sister would not dread her marriage—she was accosted by Haiweth. Hammel was just behind her.

"Goodbye, Éowyn," Haiweth said gloomily. She had clearly enjoyed having visitors. Every night at dinner, she had pressed Éowyn mercilessly for information about whatever gown she was wearing, and had been very eager to show her numerous drawings. Éowyn had to admit that her niece—for she always thought of the children as Gúthwyn's, and she was certain that Haiweth viewed the woman as her mother in all but blood—was an excellent artist. She had not had to feign amazement when examining the quality of the pieces, nor had she been forced to subtly inquire as to what the subjects were.

"Farewell, Haiweth," she now said fondly, smiling at the girl. "I hope to see you soon."

"May we visit you?" Haiweth asked, and gave a muffled cry of pain as Hammel elbowed her.

Chuckling at their interaction, Éowyn replied, "That will be Gúthwyn's decision, though you are always welcome."

Haiweth glowed at this, and then stepped away so that Hammel could speak. Éowyn watched in amusement as he cast an apologetic look towards her, clearly in reference to Haiweth's unabashed question, and then bowed as deeply as he might.

"Farewell, my lady," he said as he straightened, in an obvious attempt to make up for his sister's informality. "I hope your journey is safe."

"Thank you, Hammel," Éomund's daughter said kindly, and smiled. "Please, call me Éowyn."

Hammel nodded, though he did not correct himself. Instead he gave another bow and retreated to join Haiweth. He said a quiet word to her, and the two of them made their way to where Gúthwyn was standing. Éowyn saw her sister listening to something Haiweth said and laughing, the sound refreshing to her ears.

It was then that Lothíriel approached her, saying, "Thank you for visiting us, Éowyn. I hope you and Faramir enjoyed your stay."

"We most certainly did," Éowyn sincerely assured her. "And we would be glad to return the favor."

"Perhaps," Lothíriel said smoothly. "I pray that your return home will be untroubled."

"Thank you," Éowyn replied, and on that note the two women parted. Lothíriel went to stand beside Éomer; Éowyn took one last look around her former home and walked over to where Faramir was waiting for her.

"Are you ready?" he asked, lacing his fingers through hers.

"Yes," Éowyn said truthfully. As much as she loved Rohan, it was time to leave. She had been away from Ithilien for far too long.

And so the White Lady departed from the Riddermark, her husband at her side and her heart light with the prospect of returning to where she belonged. As the gates of Edoras closed behind her, she took a deep breath of the wholesome air and reflected that there was no place like home.

* * *

**A/N:** I just wanted to apologize for two things. a) Taking so long for this installment (gah, school), and b) appearing to go absolutely nowhere with this story. I know it seems as if this fic is just meandering around, not really headed in any particular direction, but trust me—no chapters are included unless they're necessary (whether as leading up to something or containing an important event), and I know exactly what's going to happen and how I'm going to get there. 

Big thanks to those of you who are reading this! You guys are awesome, and I love your reviews. Thank you so much!


	61. The First Snow

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: Anólindë**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. The Fellowship of the Ring had two books within the text, as did The Two Towers and The Return of the King. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where The Fellowship of the Ring started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixty-One:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Sixty-One**

_Lord Elphir,_

I pray that you are well, for it has been nearly two months since I last heard from you. It is likely that you are too busy to write, especially as we draw further into the winter months. I shall not expect a reply for some time—if you wish to respond at all, that is. I hope I do not seem as if I am troubling you, for that is not my intent; in any case, I would not want you to think that I am giving up this correspondence.

In other news, Haiweth showed me a drawing of a swan recently. She appears to have taken to the possibility of moving to Dol Amroth rather well, though naturally she does not wish to be parted from her friends. That seems to be her only complaint, however, for she is already quite excited. The opportunity to see all of the latest dresses is very appealing to her. Lothíriel told her yesterday that the merchants sell their cloth first to Dol Amroth, so that the tailors and seamstresses have unrivaled colors with which to work.

As for Hammel, he—alas!—does not have many friends to bid farewell to, but he is somewhat upset to be leaving Rohan, should the negotiations end in that direction. Please do not think it because of an ill reputation maintained by your city; he merely

Gúthwyn paused, wondering. Should she confide in Elphir about Aldeth? She had mentioned the girl once or twice in earlier letters, though she had alluded to her as nothing more than a fanciful attraction on Hammel's part. She knew the boy would be mortified if anyone other than her and Cobryn became aware of his secret—yet should she not tell the man who was to be her husband?

She sighed. It seemed as if there were plenty of things she had to keep from Elphir. What more was Hammel's as-of-yet unrequited love?

_has a difficult time adjusting to change. I am sure that, once he discovers the enormous library you told me about, he will have no lack of inclination to remain in Dol Amroth._

As for myself, I am eagerly anticipating our next meeting. My brother is being frustratingly vague about his discussions with your father, but he frequently hints that things are going well. I can only hope for the best. One of the advisors on Éomer's council informs me that just a few more months are needed to reach an agreement satisfying to both parties.

I shall be setting down the quill for dinner, so until I next hear from you I will assume that you, Alphros, and the rest of your family suffer no afflictions.

Sincerely, Gúthwyn

Gently, Éomund's daughter laid her quill down and capped her bottle of ink. The tip of her tongue absent-mindedly poking out between her lips, she reread the first paragraph of the completed letter, wondering if she sounded as if she were complaining too much.  
I hope not, she thought worriedly. For some reason, Elphir had not been promptly answering her letters of late, as he was normally wont to do. Usually, she received at least one reply a month—two, if the weather was good and the messengers were not delayed. Yet over half a season had now gone by with no word from him.

_He probably has more important things to do,_ she berated herself the next instant. _After all, he is a prince._

No, she likely could not be guaranteed a swift reply, especially if Elphir was busy with the negotiations. She certainly had no part in them, but Éowyn had assured her that it was better to leave the politics to those who were interested in their dealings. Privately, she thought that if she heard too much, she would feel nauseous. It was bad enough to deal with the approach of her marriage; she did not want to have to worry about what the councilors were saying as well. Éowyn was right about that.

Another sigh sounded in the air. She missed her sister. Only one cycle of the moon had passed, and already she was anxiously waiting for Éowyn's next letter, having sent one to her hardly a week after her departure. Preferably, her sister's reply would announce plans to visit Rohan again. Even Éomer agreed that they reunited far too infrequently. Gúthwyn's mind often nagged at her, saying that this problem would be solved if she simply journeyed to Ithilien once in a while; yet since she had no desire to return to the land where Borogor had fallen, she ignored the voice.

Soon, however, she would face this dilemma with not one sibling, but two. Slowly it was beginning to dawn on her just how lucky she would be to visit Éowyn and Éomer once a year. Dol Amroth was so far removed from home that she might as well have married the prince of Dorwinion after all. And once Imrahil's age caught up with him, an inevitable fate no matter how hard she prayed for the benevolent man, she would be the official Princess of Dol Amroth—even more bound to the Sea and to her realm.

Then, she thought miserably, she would count herself blessed by the Valar to see her family once a decade. For how many times had Éomer journeyed from his land, with the exception of warfare, after he had been crowned? At the conclusion of several minutes' frantic contemplation, the reality came crashing down on her: There was not one occasion on which her brother had ventured from the Riddermark.

_Maybe I can convince Elphir to throw several balls,_ she thought morosely. That would provide an excuse to see both of her siblings, since Lothíriel and Faramir would certainly be on the guest list. Yet any sort of party in Dol Amroth would likely be some exceedingly formal affair, with stiflingly boring conversation and Gondorian nobles breathing down her neck, waiting to pounce if she so much as used the wrong fork.

Either way she looked at it, her prospects were vastly limited and dismal. She could almost begin to imagine what Lothíriel must have felt upon marrying Éomer. No matter how much her husband cared for her, the fact remained that her family was hundreds of leagues away. Furthermore, Gúthwyn knew that Éomer could not afford to host the court of Dol Amroth much more than once every other year, which probably accounted for why Prince Imrahil had not yet visited his daughter.

_That will soon be me,_ Gúthwyn mused, gloom descending in a thick cloud around her. _Perhaps we are more alike than I thought.  
_  
However, before she had further time to wallow in self-pity that she would never dare show in front of anyone but Cobryn and Éowyn, someone knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" she called, folding her letter and quickly setting it aside.

"Hammel," was the reply. "May I come in?"

"You may," Gúthwyn answered, and turned to face the emerging figure of Hammel. He nodded at her; then his eyes fell on the letter.

"Who are you writing to?" he wanted to know.

Repressing a sigh, Gúthwyn said, "Elphir."

"Ah." Hammel was silent for a few seconds, mulling the information over as if it were a taste he had yet to judge. Gúthwyn did not break the quiet; she waited until he had digested whatever he was thinking of, and then nearly fainted when he said, "Cobryn told me that Éomer and Prince Imrahil will soon reach an agreement."

"They what?" she demanded after a moment's horrified disbelief.

"Éomer thinks that you shall be betrothed to him before the middle of summer," Hammel answered, crossing the room to sit on the edge of her bed.

The middle of summer… Though it was months away, Hammel had been right when he said "soon." In half a year, she would be pledged to a man she did not love…

"He hopes to have the final papers signed by your birthday," Hammel said then. "As a gift."

Gúthwyn could not help it. She smiled. Then, she laughed. "And what a happy birthday that will be!" she cried, marveling at her brother's idiocy and the irony of the situation. "I shall not be able to add my signature for such joy!"

Hammel did not respond, and instead kicked at the floor with his feet. Gúthwyn chuckled dryly for some time, until she could no longer deny her unhappiness. A soft sigh escaped her; it was then that she caught sight of something on her nightstand.

"Do you remember giving that to me?" she asked quietly.

Hammel lifted his head to glance at the small carving of a horse. "Yes," he said. "We were in Gondor."

"Thank you so much," Gúthwyn murmured, though she had already expressed her gratitude to him. Before he had time to reply, she stood up and hugged him fiercely. "You have no idea how much that meant to me," she whispered as he froze in surprise.

The boy did not seem to know what to say, nor did he return her embrace. He appeared quite relieved when she at last let go of him, and downright alarmed when she said "I love you" and kissed him on the forehead.

"I should be going," he muttered.

* * *

The hours slowly whittled themselves away, until Gúthwyn found herself sitting in the Golden Hall beside Éomer, chatting with both him and Elfwine. The latter, of course, could not say much beyond an incoherent babbling, but she indulged him in this regard.

"Do you remember when you and Éowyn took turns sitting on Théoden's throne?" Éomer inquired, absent-mindedly running his fingers through his son's hair.

Gúthwyn smiled at the memory. She found that it was not at all painful to hear her uncle's name, though she could barely stand to listen to others talking about Théodred. Perhaps it was because she had gotten the chance to reunite with Théoden; yet a small, mean part of her said that she had never been as close to the king as she had been to her cousin.

"And he returned with his advisors when I stood up on it," she finished, banishing the recollections of Théodred.

Éomer laughed. "It is a good thing you were only seven at the time," he joked. "Otherwise, he might have thought that you were trying to usurp his throne!"

"Hardly!" Gúthwyn scoffed, faking a shudder at the idea. "Can you imagine how boring that would be?"

"Overthrowing a king?" Éomer arched an eyebrow.

"No," she responded. "Taking his place at the council!"

A snort escaped him, causing Elfwine to look up in confusion. The baby placated himself with grabbing at the table: Éomer's hair was out of reach.

"You were never suited for politics, sister," the king remarked, shaking his head.

Gúthwyn shrugged. "I cannot understand how it is possible for anyone to be interested in them," she replied. "They are so dull."

"Perhaps, but they are necessary," Éomer said. "Yet you seem to have no trouble convincing people to do what you want them to do."

"I beg your pardon?" Gúthwyn asked dubiously.

He grinned. "You will likely grow tired of hearing this, but it was a rare person who could refuse you when you were a child."

She rolled her eyes. "You are just jealous," she teased. "No one ever gave you a ride on their back!"

"And how could they say no to you?" Éomer retorted. "You were more persistent than a mosquito, and twice as annoying."

She slapped him on the arm. "Thank you so much. I suppose no one ever thought you were bothersome? Such as myself?"

"Unlikely," Éomer chuckled. "Or have you forgotten how you used to follow me around constantly?"

"That was only when Théodred was not around," Gúthwyn pointed out, trying not to wince when she said his name. "And it was because I wanted to join your swordplay—not the admiration of any savory character on your part."

"I am wounded," he said dryly. "Actually, Théodred was gone on riding missions quite often, considering he was the Second Marshal of the Mark. So, you took it upon yourself to tag along with my friends and I nearly every day."

"Again, that was only because I wanted to join your swordplay."

"And, of course, it was always I whom you desired to spar with," Éomer muttered. "Much to my frustration."

"Oh?" Gúthwyn raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure that frustration was not due to you losing so often?"

"Hardly," he said dryly, rolling his eyes. Safe in his arms, Elfwine was twisting his head back and forth between the two siblings, occasionally reaching out for either one of them. "I let you win; you know that as well as you know your name."

"That is not the case now," Gúthwyn smirked.

"All right, enough," Éomer groaned, lifting Elfwine up so that the baby could rest his head on his father's broad shoulder. "Let us go outside, little sister. I have had—"

He paused, his attention diverted. Gúthwyn followed his gaze and saw Lothíriel emerging from the passage leading to her and Éomer's chambers. The queen had been complaining of a headache earlier that morning, and apart from a council session with the advisors had not left her room.

"How are you?" Éomer inquired concernedly as she approached. Her face was paler than usual, and she looked exhausted.

"Tired," Lothíriel said wearily, repressing a yawn as she spoke. "I did not sleep well last night—Elfwine woke me up."

The accused smiled, and babbled to Gúthwyn for several seconds before falling silent. She could not help but be amused by his antics.

"You should be resting," Éomer said, leaning over and placing a kiss on her brow.

"I will after I eat," Lothíriel replied, briefly stroking Elfwine's dark hair. "Are you just sitting down?"

"No," Éomer said, and grinned at Gúthwyn. "We were about to go for a walk outside. I grew tired of her prattling."

"You simply ran out of witty responses," Gúthwyn commented, another smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "Although, they were not very clever in the first place."

"Be quiet," Éomer said, looking as if he were trying to suppress a laugh. He turned to Lothíriel again. "I will return in an hour or so. If you need anything, send someone to look for me."

"I shall," Lothíriel answered quietly, her eyes darting back and forth between her husband and Gúthwyn. It was difficult to read the expression in her features.

"Farewell," Éomer bade her. Then he glanced at Gúthwyn. "Are you ready, sister?" he asked. "Or would you like to continue our debate?"

"I think I am done," Gúthwyn said. "We just might put Elfwine to sleep if we converse anymore."

Éomer looked down at his son and laughed. Elfwine was yawning, the smooth skin on his forehead wrinkled with sleep. "You are right," he observed. "Come, let us go."

Together they made their way to the doors, and soon found themselves outside on the landing. Immediately Gúthwyn wished she had put on another cloak or two: It was freezing. She was chilled to the bone in her woolen clothing, despite the fact that beneath her gown she was wearing numerous undergarments designated for the winter months.

"Your teeth are chattering!" Éomer exclaimed, looking worriedly at her. "It is not that that cool out."

"Yes, it is," Gúthwyn ground out, wrapping her arms around herself and trying to conserve what little body warmth she had.

"Here, you can have my cloak," Éomer offered as they went down the stairs.

"No, please, do not bother," Gúthwyn protested, not wanting him to be cold for her sake. "I will manage."

"Absolutely not," Éomer replied just as firmly, and made to hand Elfwine to her. "Will you hold him for a moment?"

Gúthwyn had no choice but to accept her nephew. He opened his eyes and stared blearily at her, once or twice mumbling something. Hoping he was warm enough, she set him close to her chest and gently kissed his forehead.

"There you are," Éomer said, his green cloak now awaiting her in his hands.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied, carefully exchanging Elfwine for the new layer. Her brother's scent lay thick upon the folds of the fabric; she could not help but inhale deeply as she fastened it about her shoulders. He was close to a foot taller than her, so the cloak nearly touched the light dusting of snow upon the ground. That was another factor indicating how cold it was: Snow only fell in the deepest depths of winter, and frost occurred for just a couple of weeks before the grass reemerged.

"It is beautiful out," Éomer murmured then, his gaze sweeping over the glazed rooftops and the white mountains.

Gúthwyn's breath rose in a mist before her as she replied, "Yet it is freezing."

He shot her a look. "Perhaps if you were not so thin, you would not have that problem."

"It is not my fault," Gúthwyn wanted to argue, but sighed and thought better of it. She had precious little time with her brother until she was officially betrothed to Elphir—she did not want to spend it quarrelling with him.

At that moment, Éomer lifted Elfwine's blanket so that his feet were exposed to the cool air. Gúthwyn started, intending to remind him that the baby could catch a cold, but then the king lowered his son downward. Elfwine gave a delighted shriek as his toes touched the snow for the first time. He leaned forward eagerly, trying to grab a fistful of the new substance.

"This is snow," Éomer told him, crouching down to get a better hold on his arms.

Despite the chill, Gúthwyn's heart nearly melted to see the look of ecstasy on her nephew's face. He was giggling, secure in his father's grip and without a care in the world. The sky chose that instant to let loose a faint sheet of snow. It came drifting down, sprinkling the royal family's garments and getting into their hair. Elfwine laughed at this, attempting to catch the strange phenomena with his hands. Then he stuck out his tongue, and one perfect snowflake landed on the pink flesh.

Grinning broadly, Éomer glanced up at Gúthwyn. She was surprised to see him frown in worry. "What is wrong, sister?"

"What do you mean?" Gúthwyn asked, and then realized that she was no longer smiling.

"You seem upset," Éomer said gently. He scooped Elfwine up, much to the baby's disappointment, and folded the blanket back over his feet. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she answered automatically, but suddenly felt that her words could not have been farther from the truth. Perhaps as early as the end of summer, she would be separated from both her brother and her nephew. When she next saw Elfwine, he would be walking, talking, eating hard food, dressing himself, and even riding a horse. She would miss all of his childhood, every single moment that Éomer and Lothíriel would remember happily for the rest of their days.

Tears threatened to burn her eyes, but angrily she forced them away. You are supposed to be enjoying yourself, she thought, making an effort to smile again. Not weeping like the weakling you are.

Taking a deep breath, Gúthwyn asked brightly, "Shall we continue?"

Éomer nodded, though he studied her carefully before sighing and concentrating on his son. Elfwine giggled at the attention, using the opportunity to make a valiant grab at his father's hair. He missed by several inches and pouted. Chuckling at this, Éomer lifted him up into the air and spun around, eliciting gales of laughter from the tiny newborn.

Despite how happy the two in front of her were, Gúthwyn felt her spirits lowering by the minute. Once she left Rohan, who knew how long it would be before she could return and see them again? What if the next time she visited was when Elfwine had grown to a man, and  
Éomer's beard had begun to turn grey? What if half of the advisors on her brother's council had died by then? What if Hildeth had perished, her body buried in an unmarked grave and with no one to tell Gúthwyn how she had at last left the world?

"Sister?"

She was pulled from her musings by Éomer's concerned voice. "Yes?" she questioned, swallowing the lump in her throat and mentally clearing her vision.

"Are you sure you are feeling well?" he asked, knitting his brow. "You look pale."

"There is not much sun to warm my face," Gúthwyn said wryly, glancing up at the grey skies. A chill stole over her. She had never grown accustomed to the winter temperatures—at some point, she knew, she had loved to play in the snow, but after the sweltering heat of Mordor even the slightest breeze was cause to put on a heavy cloak.

Éomer considered her words for a moment, and then remarked, "You will not be cold in Dol Amroth."

Contrary to what he had just stated, her heart froze as soon as the name fell from the lips. "Really?" she inquired stiffly.

Éomer nodded, oblivious to her tone. "It is warmer in the south. I visited it once, and was astonished by the change. It will be perfect for you."

_No, it will not!_ Gúthwyn wanted to scream, but restrained herself. _Why can you not see that?_ she asked silently, hoping he would somehow hear her.

She had no such luck. Éomer waved to one of the guards as they made their way further down the street, and then spoke in an undertone, "Elphir is quite eager to see you again."

Tensing, Gúthwyn asked, "Shall he be visiting soon?"

"Unfortunately, he is at the moment tied up with some commerce business—that falls to him, as the eldest son," Éomer explained, not noticing when a look of relief passed over her face. "He will not be able to journey here until the summer, and that will be to collect you."

"Collect me?" Gúthwyn repeated indignantly, trying to ignore the surge of terror she felt at the idea of finally marrying Elphir.

Éomer had the good grace to flush in shame. "It is a figure of speech," he muttered. "I did not mean to imply—"

"I suppose you are assuming that we are to be married?" Gúthwyn retorted. "Even though nothing has yet been settled on?"

He nodded, but there was less guilt on his face. "As I have said, both parties are agreeable to the idea; all that is left are the details and the final consensus."

"Will I have to sign any papers?" Gúthwyn wanted to know, already aware of what the answer was but needing something to disguise her emotions.

"Yes," Éomer replied. "The last one."

_What a magnificent occasion that shall be,_ she thought miserably, recalling how Hammel had told her that Éomer wanted to have the documents done by her birthday.

"Oh, I forgot," her brother said then. "I—"

It was then that Elfwine began squirming in his arms, reaching out towards Gúthwyn and flexing his hands as if trying to grab her. Éomer tried to hold him back, but when he began kicking and looked on the verge of screaming, he relented. "Would you mind holding him?" he questioned apologetically.

"No, not at all," Gúthwyn answered, and accepted the wriggling baby. He calmed down immediately, nestling himself against her chest and twining her hair around his fingers. Smiling at his persistence, she kissed his brow and said, "You can play with it all you want, little one, as long as you do not put it in your mouth."

Elfwine yanked downward as fiercely as he could.

"Son," Éomer began sternly, but Gúthwyn merely laughed, feeling the shadows of Dol Amroth drifting away from her mind.

"It matters not," she murmured, more to herself than to Éomer. As long as she could be with her family now, she might be able to withstand whatever came her way.

"As you wish," Éomer said, looking doubtful. "In any case, as I was about to tell you, a messenger arrived while you were sleeping this morning."

Something in his tone made her hold Elfwine tighter and ask, "Who was it?"

"An Elf," her brother responded.

Gúthwyn's heart skipped a beat. "L-Legolas is returning from Mirkwood?" she inquired, her voice cracking halfway through the sentence.

"Yes," Éomer confirmed, watching her closely to determine the nature of her reaction. She quickly schooled her features into an indifferent mask, and glanced down at Elfwine as though she were only concerned with tucking his blanket more securely around him.

"Is he to visit us?" she asked, praying that she sounded neutral.

"I left an open invitation," Éomer said softly. "Is that not undesirable to you?"

"That will be fine," Gúthwyn answered, in all actuality not knowing how she really felt. Legolas had always been courteous to her, treating her with the utmost respect and deference—yet the fact remained that he could have been Haldor's twin. No matter how hard she tried, she could only overlook such an offense for a short amount of time. Legolas had done nothing to merit her fear, and she loathed that she was so weak around him, but she could not change simply because she wanted to.

"The Elf said that he would only stop by if such an action was acceptable to you," Éomer commented. "Does Legolas… does he know that you are afraid of him?"

"I am not afraid of him," Gúthwyn immediately insisted, her raised voice causing Elfwine to briefly look up from her hair.

"Then why will he only see us if you wish it?" Éomer retorted.

To this, Gúthwyn had no answer. She only felt guiltier as she thought of how often Legolas had taken her mood into consideration, always reluctant to impose on her and frequently apologizing if he so much as imagined her discomfort. He was clearly doing all that he could to maintain their unsteady friendship—so why could she not do the same?

"Gúthwyn—" Éomer began.

"I am fine," she said. "Really."

Elfwine scowled, and tugged fiercely at her hair. She could almost hear him saying, _You? Fine? When was the last time that you could use those two words in the same sentence without lying?  
_  
The truth was, she did not know. 


	62. Princess Lessons and Ents

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: Anólindë**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. The Fellowship of the Ring had two books within the text, as did The Two Towers and The Return of the King. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where The Fellowship of the Ring started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixty-Two:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Sixty-Two**

"My lady Gúthwyn."

The words caused a rush of blood to color her face. Praying that Legolas could not see it, Gúthwyn inclined her head and braved a lower curtsy than usual. "My lord," she replied, still not trusting herself to say his name and not accidentally replace it with Haldor's.

When she straightened, she could see the other Elves standing silently behind him, having just arrived in the Golden Hall not five minutes ago. After what had been an endless day of interminable dreading, they were just twenty feet away from her—and the one she had nightmares of was asking her how she had fared since their last meeting.

"F—Well, thank you," Gúthwyn said, remembering Cobryn's remark that she only said "fine" when she was anything but.

"I am glad to hear it," Legolas replied, and with one last soft smile at her turned to Éomer. While the two of them exchanged greetings, Gúthwyn struggled to maintain her composure. In hopes of keeping herself occupied, she stared down at the fabric of her dress. She had donned her green one so that she might feel somewhat more comfortable, but the entire time she had been changing she had seen the white one that she had worn whilst giving her consent to wed Elphir.

_Why could I not have just married Borogor? _she silently asked the Valar for what felt like the millionth time. _Why did you have to take him away from me, when you knew he was the only person I loved?  
_  
What had Borogor ever done to deserve death? He had been the protector and savior of both her and Beregil, guarding each from Haldor's wrath no matter how many times others called it futile. He had watched over the children whenever she had needed him to, regardless of how tired he was or how sick they were. With the exception of the Easterlings, he was respected by all of the men, and had always done his best to treat them fairly.

"Gúthwyn?"

At the sound of Haldor's voice, she whirled around in fright, only to realize that Legolas and Éomer were watching her concernedly. "Are you all right?" Legolas inquired, his eyes meeting hers.

"Y-Yes," Gúthwyn stammered, feeling the gaze of everyone in the hall—including Lothíriel's cold one—on her. "W-What were you saying?"

"I was suggesting that we have dinner," Éomer answered, getting up from his throne. After a moment, Lothíriel followed suit, lifting Elfwine from the floor. The baby had been sitting at her feet and playing with some wooden blocks; when he was removed from his toys, he gave a loud and angry wail that caused his mother's face to turn scarlet with embarrassment.

"Elfwine, hush!" she whispered.

Her son responded by taking two fistfuls of her hair and yanking as hard as he could.

"Here," Gúthwyn said quickly, retrieving one of the blocks. "This should keep him out of your hair."

It worked. Once the item that had been wrongfully robbed from him was returned, Elfwine promptly stuck a corner of it in his mouth and was silenced.

"Thank you," Lothíriel said wearily, her cheeks still bright pink.

"You are welcome," Gúthwyn responded, inside thanking Elfwine for providing a distraction against her stuttering. Only Legolas looked at her as Éomer smiled at his wife and asked, "Shall we have dinner, then?"

Everyone agreed to this, and Legolas was escorted to Théodred's chambers. Gúthwyn felt a twinge of sadness as he left, remembering how she and Éomer had carefully wrapped all of their cousin's possessions and stored them away. After Legolas returned to Ithilien, they would put them back exactly where they had been before, neither of them having the heart to get rid of them or sell them.

Sighing, Gúthwyn pulled herself out of her musings. It would not do to dwell on Théodred's untimely death in the company of others; she had already been suspected of feeling ill. In an effort to forget about him, she took a look around the great hall. It was late in the evening, and the result was that none of the guards had been on hand to welcome Legolas. The dinner would thus be smaller, and, unfortunately, a more formal occasion.

Mercifully, Haiweth and Hammel were allowed to sit at her side tonight. This was a rare occasion on meals where Éomer was entertaining guests, as he confessed to her that he remembered all too well how many of the Gondorians had believed the children to be hers. Gúthwyn also recalled this scrutiny, and had not liked it, but she wished that she was able to sit beside them more often. However, Legolas certainly knew better, and now there was no reason for them to be separated.

Éomer and Lothíriel would assume their usual positions at the head of the table, although Bregwyn—being a mother of four herself—was not available to take Elfwine. The little prince would therefore be joining them as well; Gúthwyn knew that Lothíriel was praying for him not to throw food or start bawling. He had done all of these things in the past, which had led them to the decision that, unless it could not be helped, it was simply not the best idea for him to be at the table when there was company to exchange news with.

Cobryn was the only other Man at the table: the rest were Elves, something Gúthwyn felt rather apprehensive about. Raniean and Trelan remained the only ones whose names she could pronounce, and while the latter had on occasion smiled at her, the former seemed quite aloof and rarely so much as looked at her. The only thing she knew about them was that they were Legolas' close friends; and that was hardly source for a conversation, even if she gathered the courage to talk to them.

As a couple of tables were joined together, Gúthwyn stepped aside so that she would not be in the way and found herself standing next to Cobryn. She smiled at him, though he barely acknowledged it before asking, "What was that about?"

"What do you mean?" Gúthwyn questioned, hoping he was not referring to how she had been caught at unawares by Legolas.  
She had no such luck. "You know what I am talking about," he replied.

"I was not expecting to be spoken to," she lied, determinedly watching Hammel and Haiweth. The latter was interrogating her brother about something; Hammel seemed rather annoyed, but was clearly trying his best to keep his temper in check.

"Then why had you grown stiff before he so much as opened his mouth?" Cobryn pressed.

In spite of herself, she tensed. "I was just thinking about something," she muttered, keenly aware that they were only a few feet away from Éomer.

Her friend gave her a sharp look, but did not probe her any further, for which she was grateful. Indeed, Legolas returned from Théodred's chambers at that moment, and they all began to sit down. Gúthwyn lingered out of her seat, wondering if she would be expected to serve drinks—as was sometimes the case when guests had been invited to dinner.

However, as Éomer was lowering himself into his chair, he caught sight of her still standing and said, "Sister, please, sit. You shall rest tonight."

Relieved—for if he had decreed otherwise, she would have been bringing the Elves their wine—Gúthwyn did as she was told, and found herself directly across from Legolas. He gave a small smile, which she nervously reciprocated before hastily looking down at her plate. Her heart was pounding, mainly because Cobryn had so directly confronted her about her skittishness.

"Have you been busy of late, my friend?" Éomer inquired as the servants began setting numerous dishes on the table.

"I have," Legolas replied. "My father and I have been meeting frequently with Elrond's sons, so before I left we were traveling back and forth between Eryn Lasgalen and Lothlórien."

"And you will still be journeying to Eryn Lasgalen within a few months?" Éomer asked, his accent putting a slight emphasis on the Elvish name.

"Yes, I shall," Legolas answered. "In the early summer is when I hope to rejoin him."

Éomer glanced at Gúthwyn. She forced herself to keep a mask-like expression on her face.

"Again, you are more than welcome to rest here," Éomer at length said.

Gúthwyn met Legolas' gaze, but did not last long. She soon looked back down at her plate, swallowing and trying to convince herself that she was anticipating his next visit.

"Thank you," Legolas responded then, delayed only by the barest instant. "You are most kind. If there is any way in which I can repay your hospitality, you have but to name it and it will be done."

"We are friends," Éomer said comfortably. "I expect that, in the end, all of our debts shall be paid in one way or another."

Elfwine giggled. Éomer affectionately ruffled his son's hair and then began eating, signifying to the others that they could do the same.

"Have you had any word from Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn?" Lothíriel questioned, smiling at her husband. Gúthwyn noticed that their hands were clasped under the table.

"They visited the colony recently," Legolas informed her. "Both of them seemed to be doing well. Éowyn was quite happy; I have rarely seen someone in better spirits."

"Ever since she married Faramir, she has been that way," Éomer noted. Gúthwyn's stomach twisted.

"How is the colony?" Hammel asked then, his voice quiet but still managing to rise over the conversation Cobryn and Elfhelm were having next to him. Haiweth looked positively alarmed as the focus of the group turned to her side of the table, and she swiftly began examining her food. Gúthwyn longed to reach out and hold her hand, simply as a reassurance that no harm would come to her, but she knew that Haiweth would then perceive her own worries.

"It is doing well," Legolas said, seeming mildly surprised that Hammel had spoken to him. "We have finished planting, and the saplings should be fully grown in a hundred or so years."

"_A hundred years?_" Haiweth whispered to Gúthwyn, her eyes widening as she tried to comprehend just how long that was.

"Trees outlive us, little one," she replied quietly. By the time Legolas' plants had begun to produce seeds, she would likely no longer be walking on Middle-earth.

"Do they ever die?" Haiweth wanted to know, still speaking in an undertone. Beside her, Hammel rolled his eyes.

"Only if they are damaged by a storm, or if they are cut down," Gúthwyn said. "Otherwise, they keep growing."

Haiweth appeared to be contemplating something. "Could they ever touch the clouds?" she asked.

A long, suffering sigh escaped Hammel. This time, the girl glared at her brother in annoyance.

"Maybe," Gúthwyn answered carefully, not wanting to condone Haiweth's thinking but at the same time wondering if it would not be the best course of action to hire a tutor for her.

"If you ever travel near Fangorn," Legolas said then, causing both Haiweth and Gúthwyn to start, "you might have luck enough to see the Ents."

"What are the Ents?" Haiweth questioned suspiciously, her curiosity overcoming her anxiety around the Elf.

Legolas smiled as if recalling a fond memory. "It is difficult to describe them. The best I can manage is that they walk and talk as we do, but very deliberately—they are immortal, and rarely say anything in their own tongue unless it is worth taking hours to tell. Not all of them look alike; you can distinguish most from one another, and some of them have grown more into the forest than their companions."

Haiweth's eyes were nearly as round as the plates from which they were eating. Aware of her interest, Legolas continued. "They are far taller than you or I—by about three yards—and they have seven toes on each foot."

"_Seven?_" Haiweth repeated, shocked. She glanced down at her own feet, clad in soft slippers that had once been Gúthwyn's.

"Seven," Legolas confirmed seriously. He smiled at Gúthwyn, who could not help but return the gesture. "Their beards have twigs, leaves, and moss in them, if not other plants."

Both Éomer and Lothíriel were listening intently to him, the latter not having seen an Ent before and the former only having met Treebeard for an hour or two. Gúthwyn herself had never spoken to one of the creatures she had long ago thought a myth from ancient years past; Treebeard was the closest she had ever come to them.

"For the most part, they are calm, and slow to be moved to any action," Legolas continued to an awe-struck Haiweth.

"Yet when they are, they are terrible to behold," Cobryn said darkly. Gúthwyn looked at him and saw his gaze briefly cloud with pain, though the next instant one would have assumed it merely a trick of the light.

"Aye," Legolas said, nodding. He too had witnessed the aftermath of the Ents' devastation upon Isengard—how the great wall had been ruined, its rocks thrown to the ground as if they weighed no more than balls of yarn; how the murky water had concealed countless bodies, the greatest of which was Saruman the White. "It is not wise to anger them."

"No, it is not," Gúthwyn agreed softly, thinking of how she, Cobryn, and Lebryn had discovered the still bodies of Gwollyn and Regwyn. Even after four years of living with them, she had hardly gotten to know them—now she realized that she could not say where they had grown up, or how they had been captured in the first place.

Yet those memories held no sway over Haiweth, who jutted out her chin and said determinedly, "I want to see an Ent."

Éomer coughed, and hid his grin behind a piece of bread.

"Perhaps you will someday," Legolas said. "They are wary of strangers, but no more so than they have a right to be."

Haiweth mulled this over, and was quiet for the rest of the meal.

"Gúthwyn," Cobryn said then, his voice sharper than usual. "You need to eat."

As Éomer's eyes narrowed, darting to her empty plate, Gúthwyn glanced down and realized that her friend was right. A flush of embarrassment came to her cheeks, for now everyone was looking at her.

"Sister," Éomer ground out, "why are you not having anything?"

Hastily, Gúthwyn took some bread out of the nearby basket. "I forgot," she muttered, and tore off a corner.

"You _forgot?_" Éomer echoed in disbelief, appearing to be on the verge of yelling at her. The last time he had done so was on the morning Éowyn and Faramir had departed at the end of their visit—he had nearly caused her to become deaf as he complained about how thin she had gotten, and as he had ordered her to maintain a normal diet.

Her face burning under the scrutiny, and trying to ignore how Legolas was now watching her concernedly, Gúthwyn put the small chunk of bread in her mouth and chewed it, reflecting that she was not even hungry in the first place. Ever since she had agreed to marry Prince Elphir, her appetite had all but disappeared. More than once Cobryn had reprimanded her for it, saying that she would arrive in Dol Amroth as a mere skeleton, but she ignored him.

"Well?" Éomer asked then, raising an eyebrow.

"I was paying attention to the conversation," Gúthwyn said, her voice hardly above a whisper.

"Gúthwyn," he began, sighing; yet Lothíriel intervened, surprisingly coming to her defense.

"Éomer," she said smoothly, "she is eating now. Let us leave her in peace. Legolas, when you saw Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn, had my cousin's wife an herb garden?"

"She did," Legolas answered, inclining his head. "It has grown quite large, although I only caught a brief glimpse of it a year or two ago. When she and Faramir dined with me, she mentioned that it was flourishing."

"Excellent," Lothíriel said approvingly. "It is good that she has found something she enjoys so much."

"She ended that search at Faramir," Éomer chuckled. "I doubt she needs to look further!"

Gúthwyn gave a soft sigh, one that was undetected by anyone at the table. Of all the chances in life, perhaps the cruelest one was that the Ranger who had killed Borogor would later fall in love with her sister, all without connecting her to the woman whose heart he had destroyed a year before. And yet the Valar had chosen it to be so—why had they given her that final insult, after what they had already let her suffer through?

"Aye," Legolas said then, taking her out of her musings. "She is very content with him. I have rarely seen anyone look happier in marriage."

"Speaking of marriage," Éomer spoke, his eyes meeting Gúthwyn's. She felt her heart freeze as he elucidated, "If all goes well, Gúthwyn shall be betrothed to Prince Elphir of Dol Amroth by the beginning of summer."

Hammel's knife slipped and made a jagged cut on his meat.

Legolas' tone was quite level as he replied, but his eyes displayed signs of shock. "I was not aware that there were discussions on the matter."

"They began after you departed," Éomer explained cheerfully, clearly pleased about the one thing that would make his sister miserable for the rest of her life. "Coincidentally, Prince Imrahil and I both sent out the first letters at around the same time—his arrived only a couple of weeks after mine had left."

Legolas looked at Gúthwyn, though it was difficult to read his expression. She struggled to bear some semblance of excitement, keenly aware that Lothíriel's eyes were fixed on her.

"Congratulations, my lady," he said quietly. She had the unsettling feeling that he interpreted her thoughts on the matter far more accurately than Éomer. Then the moment passed, for when she thanked him he asked, "Are you planning to be married by the end of the year?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn said, giving a small smile as if she could barely conceal how excited she was. In reality, she could not get her lips to curve upwards anymore. "That is Éo—our hope."

"I wish you the best of luck," Legolas responded.

"Thank you," she murmured, and looked back down at the bread she now had no desire whatsoever to eat.

"Gúthwyn," Haiweth said, biting her lip. "When we go to Dol Amroth, will we be able to swim in the Sea?"

"I would think so," Gúthwyn replied, trying for the girl's sake to inject some eagerness in her voice. "Lothíriel, did you ever go swimming when you were younger?"

"Once," Lothíriel said coolly.

Haiweth's face fell. "_Once?_" she repeated unhappily. "Why not more?"

"I was occupied with more important things," Lothíriel said. "Such as learning how to be a princess—something which Gúthwyn will, no doubt, have to do if she marries my brother."

"You have to _learn_ to become a princess?" Haiweth asked, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

"Of course," Lothíriel told her, the faintest touch of haughtiness in her tone. "It is not all going to balls and wearing a crown, though many seem to think it is so. As a matter of fact, you are not even allowed to attend dances until you are of age—which in Dol Amroth is eighteen."

Haiweth looked positively horrified. "What do you do until then?" she wanted to know.

"You study," Lothíriel replied blithely. "My education was completed rather earlier than normal, but before you can come out into society you must know a number of things—the least of which is how to waltz. Legolas, is it not the same with Elves?"

"The amount of time before you can attend a formal function is somewhat longer," Legolas said, grinning faintly. "Though yes, there are numerous things that need to be learned."

"Do not worry, Gúthwyn," Lothíriel said, also smiling. The light from it, however, did not enter her eyes, which were glittering as though they were ice. Cobryn's gaze was narrowed, also interpreting the subtle insults that the queen was laying upon Éomund's daughter. "Elphir will do everything in his power to ensure that you receive tutoring that is befitting for your station; again, if the negotiations end that way. Perhaps it will be easier for you, and it might only take you ten years to complete your studies."

In spite of the fact that she was sure Lothíriel was trying to make her worry, Gúthwyn could not help but look towards Éomer in panic.  
Far from comforting her with words of reassurance, he now appeared troubled. "I seem to have done you a disservice, sister," he said uneasily, "in not pressing you to continue with an instructor."

The way he worded his concerns stung her. "I am hardly uneducated," she retorted. "I know how to read and write. I may not be able to waltz, but I can certainly use a sword, and I am not incapable of carrying a decent conversation. If that was not acceptable to Prince Imrahil, then he would have discouraged his son against me—and yet he has not."

Lothíriel seemed as if she were on the verge of saying something, but held her tongue. Éomer exhaled slowly and remarked, "Well, there is nothing we can do about that now, unless you will consent to have some lessons before you leave."

"There shall be enough time for that in Dol Amroth," Gúthwyn said angrily, determined not to spend her last few months of freedom cooped up inside with only a tutor for company. "_If_ I am, in fact, to wed Elphir."

Again, Lothíriel's eyes flashed in her direction. This time, Legolas noticed: he glanced back and forth between the two of them, puzzled, but took care not to let Éomer see his curiosity.

The king in question cast around for something to say; eventually, he directed his gaze to Gúthwyn's plate and said, "You are not eating enough."

At the unsubtle reprimand, Gúthwyn sighed, but did not want to argue any further. Obediently she had another piece of her bread, briefly contemplating having some of the stew before accepting the fact that she would never finish it. She simply had lost the will to eat—and she could directly attribute it to the beginning of the negotiations with Prince Imrahil.

Clearly, Éomer was worried about her; Éowyn had made a point of commenting that she was too thin. Cobryn berated her nearly every day for it, and even Hammel had begun to ask why she ate so little. She expected that Elphir eventually would, which simply made her feel less inclined to fill her stomach. What did it matter, anyway, if her brother said she would soon look like a skeleton? It was only one step away from becoming a ghost, which was what she feared she would be in Dol Amroth.

She took another bite of her bread, and tried not to remember Haldor watching her eat from the corner of his tent.


	63. Forgetting Borogor

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixty-Three:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Sixty-Three**

Sometimes, Gúthwyn did not know why she even bothered trying to fall asleep, especially when Legolas visited Rohan. It would be easier to throw in the towel and completely skip the nightmare stage by simply refusing to lie down in her bed until the early hours of the morning. And yet for some reason, she found herself still waking up from terrifying dreams, her whole body shivering and her heart beating faster than the pounding feet of a _Mearh_.

Tonight had been no different from the others. Haldor had bound her to the side of his bed and forced her to eat. When she threw up, he ordered her to consume that before returning to the meat. Then the nightmare had progressed. He had gagged her and poured water all over her. The liquid had soaked through the fabric, making her feel as if she were going to suffocate. That was when she had awoken, gasping for air and clutching at her chest in panic.

Even now, after having darted through the throne room and slipped outside, she still was having difficulty breathing. Her body was hunched over, leaning against a pillar; she had brought her thickest robe, and no matter how tightly she wrapped it around herself she could not get warm. Every time she exhaled, a white cloud appeared before her, bringing a chill to her bones before it disappeared. She was miserable here, and yet she could not go back inside.

_If you were not so weak,_ she thought angrily to herself, _then you would not have this problem! You would be sleeping, like every other person in the Golden Hall!_

Gúthwyn sighed, drawing her knees even closer to her chin and trying to spread her body heat further. Éomer had told her that it was far warmer in Dol Amroth; regardless of how much she did not want to admit it, that would be a relief. For the majority of the year in Rohan, she was cold whenever she set foot outside. As that was quite often, she found herself shivering for almost the entire day.

_Better weather will not be much of a comfort if I have to sleep with Elphir._

She sighed again, knowing that was the truth. Part of her felt guilty for dreading their wedding, inevitable as it was. After all, Elphir had always shown nothing but courtesy to her. He had accepted the things that made most Gondorian nobles frown at her, and he had always complimented her whenever he had the opportunity. While the two of them had been friends, they had never lacked for conversation.

If marriage did not involve a consummation, and it was simply for convenience with neither of them truly in love with each other (as it would have been, had she taken Cobryn up on his offer), then Gúthwyn thought that she might have enjoyed a life with Elphir much more. Their joining together would merely be an extension of their friendship, with nothing requiring him to make love to her at night.

And yet, that was not what Éomer and Prince Imrahil were arranging. When all was said and done, she would be shipped off to Dol Amroth, where she would become the princess of a people she had never met. She prayed that Elphir did not want an heir from her, but if he did then she would be forced to lie beneath him until she brought the news that she was carrying a child.

For a moment, something stirred uneasily along the fringes of her memory, but it disappeared just as quickly as it had come. As much as she hated confirming it to herself, Gúthwyn could not help but desire a child of her own, and would have leaped at the chance of getting one if it did not mean subjecting herself to the humility of being taken in bed by a man. She loved Hammel and Haiweth dearly, but soon they would no longer need her. Hammel was already beginning to pull away; Haiweth would eventually follow, and when they were both married they would be able to take care of themselves.

Her mind wandered into the future that she would never have with Borogor. She was certain that a child had been in it; that if the Valar had granted her his love, she would now be the mother of a boy like Elfwine, or a girl like Haiweth—or even both. The days of her life would be passing by with her and Borogor side by side, watching over their children during the day and kissing each other at night.

An instant later, she groaned as she imagined her lips brushing against his, feeling the sensation of his hands gently weaving their way through her hair and their bodies pressed together. How was it that she kept doing this to herself, no matter how many times she tried not to torment her heart?

_Especially now that Elphir is to be your husband,_ her conscience nagged her. _What would he say if he knew that you were thinking of another man like that?_

No, she told herself. She could not think about Borogor anymore. She would have to bury his memory, put it into a place where she could only retrieve it when she needed some comfort in the miserable hours of night. It would cost her everything to try to forget him, but for Elphir's sake she had to at least make the attempt. It was not his fault that he loved her enough to marry her—who was she to cause him to regret choosing her as a wife?

Gúthwyn sighed, seeing the years ahead of her stretch endlessly onward until they became nothing but a blur of despair. Already she was missing Rohan and its people. Who knew when she would see them again? How could she possibly survive so far away from them, from her family and friends?

_How did you do it over a decade ago?_ she asked herself. _Somehow you managed to; Éowyn, Éomer, and Théodred were out of your life for seven years, and yet you were able to continue with the motions of slavery. You even outlived Haldor—why are you so desolate now?_

At the thought of Haldor, she shivered. Perhaps it was not Borogor whom she needed to forget. Maybe her energies were better devoted to pushing the Elf from her mind, until he was nothing more than an ominous shadow lurking in the corners of her nightmares. But how could she cast him aside as if he were an outgrown layer of clothing? The scars from all that he had done to her were still fresh, both physically and mentally. If anything, the latter were getting worse.

_Who would you rather pretend had never existed: Borogor or Haldor?_

"Gúthwyn?"

Terrified, she nearly fell backwards as she jumped in surprise. Hastily she gathered her robe around herself again, her hands shaking at the intrusion. Even before she turned around, she knew that she would see Legolas watching her.

"I am sorry," he apologized almost immediately. "I did not mean to startle you. Are you all right?"

"Yes," she muttered, drawing away from as she spoke. "I was… I was lost in my thoughts."

Legolas did not say anything to that; instead, he stepped further out onto the landing and closed the door behind him. She was barely able to restrain herself from cringing.

"The stars are bright tonight," he said simply, looking up into the sky.

Gúthwyn followed his gaze and saw that he was indeed right. She had been so preoccupied in her musings that she had not even noticed them. A pang of sadness entered her as she recalled Cobryn telling her how his father had taught him all the names of the stars. Her friend no longer had his family; in Gondor, he said he had gone to where they used to live, only to find an empty house.

She shivered, imagining what it would have been like to return to a vacated Golden Hall, and then stiffened as Legolas asked quietly, "Did you have a nightmare?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn said, hating this perpetual symbol of her weakness. Legolas came outside not because he felt as though he were suffocating in Théodred's chambers, but because he wished to gaze at the stars. Whereas she could not even shake off the torments of her past; instead, she was forced to carry out her days in their shadow, never knowing when they might strike.

She was distracted by the sound of Legolas' throat clearing. "Gúthwyn," he began, "if it is truly my visits that trouble you, then you have every right to deny me rest here. I should not be disturbing your sleep each night—nor have I ever wanted to."

"I do not only get nightmares when you are here, Legolas," she said, her eyes imperceptibly widening as she realized that she had used his name.

He, too, seemed surprised; it struck her then that she could likely count on her hand the number of times she had actually spoken his name. She had said Haldor more often than she had addressed him by his given one. A rush of guilt swarmed through her. How could she continually treat a person so horribly? Legolas was clearly doing his best to maintain their rocky friendship, while she was the reason it was so unpredictable. She had scorned him, yelled at him, cringed from him, and refused to speak to him, all because he bore an uncanny resemblance to Haldor—which was something he could not control.

And in return, Legolas had rescued her from the wreckage of Mordor, was always polite and courteous to her in every way, and constantly apologized for offenses he had not committed. Still he persisted in trying to earn her trust, despite the fact that others would have given up long before and come to loathe her for her stubbornness. In this regard, he was almost like Borogor: Borogor had refused to let her be afraid of him, even after she had been taken by Haldor.

But that was where the similarities ended.

She sighed, and then felt shivers run up and down her spine as Legolas asked, "Is there anything I can do to… to help?"

"If there is, I will be greatly in debt to you," Gúthwyn said wearily. "Though I am already."

"I consider us even," Legolas replied. "You have suffered enough on my account."

Gúthwyn flushed, not wanting to admit how close he was to the truth. "How so?" she questioned instead, wondering what his own reasons were.

He looked down at her. "Whenever our eyes meet," he said, "I see the way he treated you reflected in yours."

She flinched, but determinedly held his gaze. "That is not always true," she muttered, glad that the stars made her face seem paler than the faint pink it was. "And—"

Yet she could not finish the sentence. She had been about to say that he could not possibly know what Haldor had done to her, but she realized that it did not matter: the Elf had tried to kill her in front of him.

There was another pause, and then Legolas suggested tentatively, "Have you spoken to Éomer about your dreams?"

"No," Gúthwyn responded, shaking her head. "He worries enough about"—she stopped just short of saying "me," for she did not want him to think that she required constant supervision—"the kingdom."

"He would want to know," Legolas said gently.

"He has already done for me more than I have a right to ask of him," Gúthwyn replied gloomily. "And soon it will be out of his hands."

The mood of the conversation tensed, and darkened. It seemed to her that they had both stirred uneasily at the reference to her marriage.

"Forgive me if this is too bold," Legolas began awkwardly, "but you did not appear to be… ah, happy about the prospect of wedding Elphir."

She looked at him. "That is too bold," she said simply, yet nevertheless answered his unspoken question. "I do not want to be his wife."

Legolas' eyes widened. "Then why did you agree to be?"

Gúthwyn shot him a warning glance. "Éomer will hear nothing of this."

After a moment's hesitation, he exhaled and confirmed, "No."

She continued, not entirely sure why she was, but desperate to get it off her chest. "I told you that Éomer desired for me to find a husband, correct?"

Legolas nodded.

"I had no interest in marrying," Gúthwyn explained, "and I wrote to Éowyn in hopes of convincing her to make Éomer see that. But she would not help."

"Why not?" Legolas inquired, sitting down as he did so. The standard five-foot distance was maintained; despite her inclination to stiffen at such close quarters, she could not help but notice how the strain on her neck lessened, and that it felt like they were almost equals now.

She struggled to regain her focus on the conversation at hand, answering, "She thinks that wedding another will… will be good for me. Perhaps I should have known better. She is so in love with Faramir that it may well be that she cannot imagine my marriage would be anything but the same."

It was only the slightest trace of bitterness that marred her words as she spoke; she was surprised at how even the rest of her voice was as she said, "Éomer found out what I had done and was furious. He decided to have a council session the next day to determine who my husband would be."

"That does not seem like something your brother would do," Legolas said, sounding puzzled.

Gúthwyn sighed. "I had already promised him that I would search for"—she swallowed—"love. When he discovered that I had not spoken truthfully, he was angered. He also believes that I would find happiness in marriage."

"And are you so sure that you would not?" Legolas asked softly, his gaze meeting hers.

"I…" She trailed off, suddenly unable to see him through the glittering blur that had cast its veil over her eyes. Her head turned to the side; she would not let him see this frailty, this betrayal of her resolve to forget about Haldor and Borogor.

It was only when she had gained some semblance of control over herself that she whispered, "I am not ready."

Legolas did not say anything, but instead waited patiently for her to elucidate. For a time, the silence hung heavily between them, until at last she blurted out, "I do not love Elphir."

"Then why would you agree to wed him?" Legolas asked, evidently trying to hide how shocked he was. She supposed that Elves had never arranged marriages of convenience before, or that the women had never been given away by their rulers for the sake of allegiance. The thought gave her little comfort.

"It was either him or Cobryn," Gúthwyn said, resting her head in her hands so that she would not have to look at Legolas. "I know Cobryn does not wish to get married—and at least Elphir and I are friends…"

Her reasoning was weak at best. Even Legolas sounded skeptical as he questioned, "Could you not have spoken to Éomer and convinced him that you did not want a husband?"

"He would never have conceded," Gúthwyn answered wearily. "And he is right, though I do not want to admit it. Because of Hammel and Haiweth, he says it is better for me to get married so that others will not think…"

Again, she did not finish the sentence. Her face burned and she hastily stared down at her knees, berating herself for having even mentioned the topic. Memories of Haldor threatened to sneak past the defenses of her mind, ones of his hands roaming all over her stomach and his mouth hissing poisonous words against Théoden in her ears.

_No!_ she yelled at herself. _You are not supposed to be thinking of him!_

"I understand," Legolas said then, dragging her out of her thoughts. She chanced a glance at him, but to her surprise saw that he was not looking at her in disgust. A smile even tugged at his lips as he said, "Children have a way of complicating things."

Gúthwyn could not help but agree. "They do." Yet she would not have given up Hammel and Haiweth for anything in the world—not even Borogor.

Then something struck her, and curiosity overwhelmed her so that she asked, "Have you found a wife?"

For a moment, she thought that she should not have spoken, but he merely shook his head. "I have not been looking."

"Did your father… did he not want you to marry?"

"He still does," Legolas replied. "But while he would rather have me do so sooner than later, I could delay hundreds of years and he would not be over-angry with me."

Gúthwyn tried not to show her awe and envy at how much time he had to choose a spouse. Éomer had succeeded in wearing her down to accept one within months—imagine if she had had centuries at her leisure to convince him otherwise! But then her shoulders slumped: no matter how much time in the world she had before her, Borogor would never return.

_By the Valar,_ she thought irritably. _Is it so impossible to keep my mind off of him for more than five minutes at a time?_

Her mood worsened, and she folded her arms across her stomach. She was furious with herself for not being able to suppress the memories of her past; she _knew_ that they were responsible for her nightmares, and all of those times that she suddenly could not breathe and had only the sensation of being suffocated from all directions. And yet she still wallowed in them, to the point where she could not see any way out of the mere.

Perhaps her resentment had manifested itself more clearly than she had thought, for Legolas did not venture onto a new subject, nor did he broach the old conversation again. The two of them spent the rest of the night wrapped in their own musings, him gazing at the stars and her shivering in the cold, wondering how she had become so weak. Once and only once he offered her his cloak, but the proposal and its refusal were carried out in silence, and afterwards she did not even look at him.

When the first fingers of dawn touched the sky, Gúthwyn rose and thanked him. For the second time that night, she said his name, and was surprised to detect no trace of fear in her voice.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm sorry for such a delay to produce such a short chapter. My weekend got kind of busy, because I had to film a video for an English project, we had company over for most of Saturday, and I also had to do a history essay. Nevertheless, the chapter that I actually wrote over the weekend (there being a ten-chapter delay) was much longer, so sooner or later it will be posted.

I'm aware that some of you are probably getting bored, but don't worry: things are going to happen soon. All of these scenes right now are contributing more to Gúthwyn's recovery in the long run, rather than subplots that are occurring at the moment.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it.


	64. No Use Crying Over Spilled Ink

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixty-Four:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Sixty-Four**

"Yes, Elfwine."

Gúthwyn nodded seriously, but the next instant burst out laughing as her nephew got on all fours and rocked back and forth, having not yet reached the crawling stage. Elfwine giggled at her reaction and determinedly shook himself even more. One of his hands reached out towards her hair, though it was thwarted by several inches' distance. He pouted in displeasure, evidently torn between attempting to move and playing with her locks, and eventually collapsed back down to the ground.

"Have you had enough?" she asked him as he rolled over onto his back and gazed up at her. "Would you like to try standing again?"

He scrunched up his nose and wriggled closer to her. All the while a string of nonsensical words poured from his mouth.

"Well?" Gúthwyn questioned, putting her face near his and smiling. As he grabbed her cheek, she gently nuzzled his nose, imitating a horse. She was rewarded with a shriek of laughter.

The king's heir then rolled over again, attempting to push himself up. Gúthwyn adjusted herself more comfortably on the floor, content enough to watch him. He had not yet learned to stand on his own, but that had certainly not stopped him from trying. She was looking forward to when he could walk, for then she would be able to stroll with him around Edoras and show him other sights.

While she observed him carefully, he gripped the bench and used it to struggle to his feet. The expression on his face was so contorted that she could not help but chuckle. It was taking all of his energy to simply stand up for a few seconds—and only if he was holding onto something. Yet all too soon he would lose his balance, and then he would fall to his bottom and laugh at his mishap.

Currently, the two of them were the only ones in the hall. Éomer, Lothíriel, and the advisors had retreated into the council room. Cobryn was among this number; as was usual when he was occupied with business, Hammel had gone somewhere with a book thicker than Gúthwyn was. Haiweth was in their room, although rather than pursue her education she had elected to draw.

As a result, Gúthwyn and Elfwine had been left to their own devices, which to the latter meant attempting to mobilize himself.

"Almost there!" Éomund's daughter encouraged him.

He grinned at the sound of her voice and promptly lost his concentration. Before she could even blink he was sitting back on the ground, staring upward in surprise at where he had just been.

"So close," Gúthwyn said cheerfully, not wanting him to become discouraged. Her worries were needless: for the most part, he was a pleasant baby, and only threw fits if something of his was taken away. He rarely gave her any trouble, though he was inclined to occasionally be as stubborn as his father.

Now, he simply grabbed at the bench again, and gave another attempt to lift himself up. Gúthwyn inched closer to him, hoping he would not fall in the wrong direction and hit his head on the corner of the seat. The wooden edges were not sharp, having been dulled through years of use, but they could still be potentially dangerous to a child. Haiweth had banged her knee several times on them, once or twice drawing blood.

Elfwine tried again and again to stand up, but was unsuccessful. When he appeared on the verge of frustration Gúthwyn got to her feet and lifted him up.

"I think you have strained yourself enough for today," she murmured, and for extra persuasion held out a large lock of hair. He latched onto it, but cast one last mournful look at the ground.

Gúthwyn smiled. "Someday, little one," she said. "Someday you will be able to walk. Yet now is not the time."

He looked at her and spoke, but it was nothing that she could understand. She sighed and kissed his brow. "Shall we go outside?"

Elfwine's eyes lit up, and he began babbling energetically. Gúthwyn could not resist mimicking some of the sounds, trying to maintain the conversation. Since he seemed receptive to the idea, she started making her way towards the doors. Éomer and Lothíriel would not know where she had gone, so she would not venture far, but at least they would be able to get some fresh air.

Just before they went out, Gúthwyn retrieved her thickest cloak from where it had been lying on a table, as well as Elfwine's woolen blanket. Luckily, the wind—which became rather vicious at times, much to her misery—was not so terrible that day. She had already been out on the training grounds, and it had not been biting at her cheeks like it normally did. Yet the earth would remain frozen for several months, so one had to exercise caution when wandering outside.

Tucking the blanket securely around Elfwine, she cradled him to her chest and went through the doors, smiling at the guards. Almost immediately the chilly air rushed at her, making her hold her nephew tighter and shiver violently. If Elfwine noticed her discomfort, he did not give her any sign of it.

"By the Valar," she muttered to him nevertheless, her teeth chattering as she went down the stairs. "Why must it be so cold?"

In response, Elfwine absent-mindedly tugged at her hair.

"Gúthwyn?"

Caught completely off-guard, Gúthwyn inhaled sharply as she held her nephew closer to her and looked up. Her pulse began racing when she saw that it was Legolas, and she actually took a step backwards.

"I-I did not see you," she breathed, resisting the urge to press her hand over her heart. "W-What are you doing?"

Sensing her distress, Elfwine started fussing. Gúthwyn tried to calm him down by swaying gently back and forth, but she could not hope to do the same to herself. Even as her nephew became quiet in her arms, she recalled how they had met last night on the landing of Meduseld, and wondered if he now thought less of her because she was still unable to curb her nightmares.

"I was practicing archery," Legolas explained. Sure enough, he had his quiver slung across his back, to which his bow had been fastened. She eyed them, praying that her nervousness did not show in her gaze.

Her expression must have betrayed her, however, for then Legolas said, "I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you."

"I was not frightened," Gúthwyn immediately retorted, and flushed when she realized how childish she must have sounded. "W-What I mean to say is, I was not expecting you."

Legolas nodded, and then mercifully changed the subject. "How is Elfwine?" he inquired, smiling as the baby's eyes fixed on him.

"He is well," Gúthwyn answered, smoothing out her nephew's blanket. "He was trying to stand today."

"Has he yet succeeded?" Legolas asked, his eyes widening somewhat.

"Only when he is holding onto something," Gúthwyn replied, and added, "You seem surprised."

He nodded. "It takes years for an Elven child to be able to do what Elfwine has done in months."

Gúthwyn had not known this, but after her initial amazement, she reflected that it made sense—if they were immortal, then they did not have to grow up so fast as humans.

"What do they look like?" she found herself wondering.

"What do they look like?" Legolas repeated, knitting his brow.

"E-Elven children," Gúthwyn stammered, her cheeks flaming as she became conscious of how foolish her question was. _Of course they look the same,_ she berated herself. _What was going through her head?_

Yet Legolas did not seem to think that her inquiry was stupid. Instead he mulled it over for a couple of minutes, during which Elfwine stirred restlessly and Gúthwyn placated him with a fistful of her hair.

"They are similar in appearance to human children," Legolas said at length, looking at Elfwine as if comparing him to Elven newborns he had seen. "Yet they have a faint glow around them, even during the day."

"A glow?" Gúthwyn echoed, puzzled. Surreptitiously she glanced at the prince, trying to detect the same about him. She could see nothing.

"All Elves have it," Legolas explained, "though it is more visible on the young. For most of us, it is very faint even during the night."

Gúthwyn was utterly bewildered. She had never seen anything like what he was describing on Haldor, and the Valar knew how many times she had lain beneath him in the darkness—she flinched—nor had she noticed an inner light about Legolas. Then again, she could not say that she had examined him closely when they met outside after her nightmares, for she preferred to break all eye-contact as quickly as it was made.

Legolas saw her confusion and said, "It is of no importance."

Gúthwyn looked back down at Elfwine, still shivering in the cold. She bit her lip before hazarding, "Do Elves not also sleep with their eyes open?"

"Yes," Legolas confirmed, seeming somewhat taken aback that she had known that. Though his reaction was not casting any suspicion on her, she could not help but redden in shame, thinking of how she was aware of that characteristic only because she had lain next to Haldor.

It was then that Elfwine began squirming in her arms, tugging frantically at her hair as if trying to tell her something.

"What is wrong?" she asked, rocking him gently.

His hand flung out, reaching—something was beyond his grasp, and she tried to see what he was looking at. It was then that she noticed Hammel threading his way through the ground, having walked right by them without saying a word. Having a sneaking suspicion of what he was up to, Gúthwyn's gaze began sliding over to the well where he had so often met Aldeth.

"Do you want me to call him?" Legolas questioned then, looking back and forth between the two of them in puzzlement.

"No," Gúthwyn said quickly, standing on her tiptoes in order to see if the blacksmith's daughter was, in fact, Hammel's destination. Only a few seconds later the crowd parted, enabling her to see Aldeth drawing water into her bucket. Yet then her eyes widened in the realization that the girl was not alone: Wulfríd, the boy who had mercilessly teased Hammel since their first meeting, was right next to her.

_Oh, no,_ she thought, wondering what Hammel would do. Her eyes darted back to him just in time to see him stop mid-stride, half-hidden from Aldeth by a large group of gossiping women. Every muscle in his body grew taut, and one of his hands curled into a fist.

"What is wrong?" Legolas asked quietly, knitting his brow.

"Aldeth," Gúthwyn whispered, not caring that he would not know to whom she was referring.

Craning her neck to get a better view, she felt a sinking sensation in her stomach as Aldeth's face turned pink at something Wulfríd had said. Then her hands slipped on the bucket, and she would have lost it had the boy not lunged forward and grabbed it for her. Her thanks were earnestly expressed—with each word, Gúthwyn could see Hammel's shoulders tensing even more.

As Wulfríd gestured towards the container and said something that Éomund's daughter was unable to hear, she wondered if he knew about Hammel's attraction to Aldeth. _It would likely not deter him,_ she thought angrily, recalling how Cobryn had told her that Wulfríd constantly unhanded Hammel in practice so as to knock his feet out from under him, just for the pleasure of seeing him fall.

Part of her wanted nothing more than to storm over to Éothain's son and pull him away from Aldeth, setting Hammel in his place. Yet this was something that she could not do for the child she loved as if he were her own; and they were only twelve, for the Valar's sake. She could hardly dictate to whom Aldeth should give her heart, especially if she was too young for such a decision.

However, she could not help but feel sorry for Hammel as Aldeth relinquished her bucket to Wulfríd. The two of them began walking away from the well, side by side and deep in conversation. Neither the boy nor girl looked back once; they did not see Hammel's shoulders slump in defeat, or how not an inch of him moved for nearly a full minute.

And then, the change so abrupt that Gúthwyn blinked in surprise, he whirled around and stalked back through the crowd, his expression murderous. Quickly she pretended to be watching Elfwine play with her hair, but when Hammel saw her she could feel the intensity of his gaze from several yards' distance.

"You did not see _anything,_" she hissed at Legolas, keeping her gaze averted as Hammel stormed towards them.

Swiftly, Legolas nodded, still appearing baffled as to what had transpired.

Hammel came to a halt in front of them, and sent such a glare towards Legolas that the Elf's eyes widened.

"What is wrong?" Gúthwyn inquired gently, reaching out and putting a hand on his arm.

He wrenched away from her, causing Elfwine to cry out as he was jolted. Gúthwyn hushed her nephew soothingly, trying to pay attention to both him and Hammel.

"When are you marrying Elphir?" the boy demanded then, a furious light blazing in his eyes.

Not having expected this inquiry, Gúthwyn blinked, and it was several seconds before she had collected her thoughts enough to answer.

"Well?" Hammel prompted impatiently.

"Sometime this summer," Gúthwyn replied dazedly, not understanding his intent behind the interrogation.

"Good," Hammel snarled, his hair falling across his eyes and making them look even more sinister. "The sooner we leave, the happier I shall be."

"Hammel—" Gúthwyn began, but he turned around and all but ran from them, his small frame disappearing into the crowd before she had a chance to call out, "Wait!"

Within a few seconds, they could see him disappearing into the Golden Hall.

Gúthwyn exhaled slowly, her breath appearing in a chilly mist before her.

"What happened?" Legolas asked then, his eyes narrowed.

Sighing, Gúthwyn responded, "Did you see the girl?"

"Yes," Legolas confirmed, glancing back to where Aldeth and Wulfríd had been. "Who was the boy?"

"His name is Wulfríd," Gúthwyn explained. "He is the son of Éothain, one of the Riders. Ever since he and Hammel met, he has been ridiculing him for his lack of fighting prowess."

"And what of Aldeth?" Legolas questioned, still trying to put the pieces together.

"Hammel is in love with her," Gúthwyn said, lowering her voice. "He has only admitted as much to Cobryn and I, yet it is rather obvious."

"Is Wulfríd aware this?" the Elf wanted to know, arching an eyebrow.

"I would not put it past him," Gúthwyn muttered. "Ever he seeks to mock him in front of the other children, simply for his own amusement."

"It will likely pass soon," Legolas said quietly. "Hammel is barely twelve, is he not?"

"He is almost thirteen," Gúthwyn corrected, her voice slightly defensive. "And he is wise beyond his years. Nor is it uncommon for mortals to fall in love at such a young age."

Legolas inclined his head. "I am sorry," he murmured. "I did not mean to imply—"

Gúthwyn sighed. "Nay," she said. "Do not apologize for something I should not have taken offense at. Do you not recall our agreement?"

The barest hint of a smile crossed his face. "I am finding it very difficult to uphold," he admitted.

"So even Elves are not perfect," Gúthwyn taunted, the words coming effortlessly to her.

In the pause that followed, she realized what she had just said—and how easily she had done so. Her breath caught in her throat, and she quickly reminded herself that she should not have spoken so lightly. "I am sorry," she began. "I—"

"No, we are not," Legolas confirmed. "And now you are the one forgetting our agreement."

Gúthwyn flushed, and directed her gaze towards Elfwine, where at least his half-closed eyes did not make the hairs on the back of her neck stiffen. The king's heir smiled sleepily at her, all of his energy depleted from a combination of exerting himself beforehand and resting snugly in his warm blanket.

"I should find Hammel," she finally said, still pink in embarrassment. "E-Excuse me."

With that, she hastened away, her numb hands clutching Elfwine perhaps more tightly than she needed to. Quickly she ascended the stairs, thanking the guards as they held the doors open for her. A fierce gust of wind came from the mountains just as she was about to go in, and it bit mercilessly at her exposed skin until she was hunched over in misery.

Once she had retreated into the safety and warmth of the Golden Hall, she felt much better. Her breathing evened, and her sense of security was heightened when she glanced up and saw Éomer approaching her.

Almost immediately, Elfwine caught sight of his father and began squirming to reach him. The exchange was made, and soon Éomer was cradling his son while asking how her walk had been.

"It was cold," Gúthwyn said truthfully. She was still shivering a little.

"You are always cold," Éomer pointed out, and glanced down at Elfwine. "He seems to be fine."

To confirm his statement, Elfwine giggled and swatted at his beard. Gúthwyn smiled at this, and said, "That is true. He, at least, had a blanket wrapped around him!"

"I can have one made for you," Éomer teased her.

Gúthwyn rolled her eyes. "Thank you, brother," she said dryly. "I appreciate your offer."

Éomer laughed at this and asked, "What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

"I need to find Hammel," she replied. "Have you seen him?"

"He just came in," Éomer informed her. "He was upset about something, yet he went into his room before I could press him about his mood."

"One of the boys slighted him again," Gúthwyn explained with a sigh, not wanting to spread the news of Hammel's unrequited love to anyone other than Cobryn and Legolas, the latter of whom could probably have little else furthest away from his primary concerns. "I am going to see if I can put him in better spirits."

"Good luck," Éomer said, and she gave her thanks before passing through the hall and entering the corridor. She could see the door to Hammel and Haiweth's room; it was firmly shut, but she heard raised voices filtering through it.

"Hammel, _stop bothering me!_" Haiweth shrieked, the wooden door not enough to keep her shrill voice from piercing Gúthwyn's ears.

"Then do not sing so loud!" Hammel retorted.

"I can sing as loud as I want!" Haiweth declared defiantly, and then broke into a screaming verse about butterflies.

All of a sudden there was a loud _bang_, and the sound of parchment being torn. Haiweth's song abruptly ended, and as Gúthwyn quickened her steps she heard the child burst into tears. It was then that the door flung open—so forcefully that it bounced off the wall and almost hit her in the process—revealing a red-faced Hammel.

"_What is going on?_" Gúthwyn demanded, grabbing his arm before he had a chance to storm past her. "Why is she crying?"

Hammel was silent, resolutely furious and equally determined not to answer her.

"Come with me," Gúthwyn ordered, and dragged him into the room. Haiweth was sitting at her drawing table, her face buried in her hands and her body shaking with sobs. The remains of an illustration were scattered around her, half-drowned in a bottle of ink that had spilled across the wooden surface. Éomund's daughter felt her mouth dropping open.

The moment Haiweth noticed her appearance, she scrunched her face up, pointed to Hammel, and bawled, "He _ruined_ it!"

"Stay here," Gúthwyn hissed to Hammel, and let go of him so that she could make her way over to Haiweth. "What happened?" she asked gently, putting a hand on the girl's quaking shoulder.

Haiweth gave a great wail and stabbed at the remnants of her parchment. Her breath hitched and caused her voice to crack as she cried, "H-H-Hammel got m-mad and t-t-_tore it up!_"

Gúthwyn reached forward and took one of the scraps, wondering what it was that she had been drawing in the first place. All that she could see were two hands. Her gaze shifted back to Haiweth, who was nearly convulsing in her misery, and then to Hammel, whose face was mask-like.

"I will try to help you put it together in a few minutes," Gúthwyn promised. "But first—"

"Y-You cannot!" Haiweth choked out, tears streaming down her face. "I-I have b-b-been doing this _all week!_"

Gúthwyn turned around and glared at Hammel, not for one second doubting that he had known that. He gave her a contemptuous look and stepped back towards the door, clearly intending to leave before she had a chance to discipline him.

"_Stay here,_" she repeated warningly, "or I will have Cobryn find you."

He halted in his tracks, the threat of being punished by the advisor evidently enough to stop him. Gúthwyn filed that information away for future use.

"Now, come with me," she told him.

Sullenly, he let her lead him out of the room and into her own chambers, where she gestured for him to sit on one of the chairs.

"Why would you do that?" she demanded almost before his bottom had touched the seat.

Hammel said nothing.

"You _knew_ she had been working on it," Gúthwyn seethed, "and you had no right to destroy something that was not yours! If she was bothering you, you should have come to me!"

He folded his arms across his chest, staring so fiercely at the arm of his chair that she would not have been surprised if holes had appeared in it.

Sighing, Gúthwyn asked more quietly, "Is this because of Aldeth?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his eyes darted towards her before looking away again.

"Listen," Gúthwyn began, taking another seat and drawing it close to his. "I saw her and Wulfríd together."

"And you told Legolas?" he snarled, swiftly connecting the timing. "Is there _anyone_ in Edoras whom you have not?"

"That was uncalled for," Gúthwyn said, narrowing her eyes. "Legolas does not concern himself with your business, and has no reason to speak of you to others. Aside from with him and Cobryn, I have said nothing in conversation about Aldeth, not even to my own brother. Do you think I am so inclined to gossip that the story is now all over this city?"

Hammel had the good grace to appear awkward for a few seconds, but then he quickly frowned again.

"Hammel, Wulfríd was likely trying to be friendly," Gúthwyn said. "Aldeth is certainly a pleasant girl, and there is no reason why he should not help her with her chores."

From the expression on Hammel's face, she could tell that she was getting nowhere. But she could not resist finishing, "In any case, you are not even thirteen—"

"And what difference does that make?" Hammel growled. "_You_ were only—" He stopped abruptly as Éomund's daughter felt her pulse quicken. "Forget it," he muttered, and pushed his chair back as if going to stand. "I—"

"Do not get up," Gúthwyn commanded, determinedly focusing on Haiweth and ignoring what Hammel might have gone on to accuse her of. "I am not done talking to you."

Hammel looked as though he were tempted to roll his eyes, but he obeyed her. She ignored his attitude and said, "You and Haiweth are getting too old to be sharing a room. I will speak to Éomer and see if I can change that. If such an arrangement can be made, your sister shall choose her quarters first."

That, she knew, was not enough to make Hammel regret his action, especially since he only went into his room to read in peace. "Finally," she said, "you will give me the book that is on your nightstand. Haiweth lost a week of drawing, and you shall lose a week of reading."

If looks could kill, she would have perished in that moment. Hammel flung the chair back and shot to his feet. As he was leaving the room, she shouted after him, "Do not make the mistake of giving me a different one!"

Once he had slammed the door to her chambers as hard as he possibly could, Gúthwyn exhaled and ran her fingers through her hair. She was not used to having arguments with Hammel, or being forced to punish him—and unlike other siblings she had seen, who squabbled nearly every day, his and Haiweth's grievances with each other were simply that they shared none of the same interests. Yet normally this was not a problem, and he was so quiet and well-behaved that she had never had a reason to worry about him in that regard.

_It must be Aldeth, _she thought to herself. _If he was upset enough about seeing her and Wulfríd together…_

Just then, she heard a knock on the door. "Who is it?" she called, straightening and wondering if Hammel had returned already.

"Lothíriel," came the queen's voice.

Surprised, and more than a little apprehensive, Gúthwyn nevertheless said, "Come in."

Lothíriel entered, a distressed-looking Elfwine in her arms. "What is happening?" she asked, irritation evident in her stormy grey eyes. "You have frightened my son, and I have barely managed to get him to stop crying."

"I am sorry," Gúthwyn automatically apologized, wishing she had not disturbed her nephew. "Hammel and Haiweth—"

It was then that Hammel strode in, not seeing Lothíriel at first and accidentally shouldering her. Elfwine began waving his fists and wailing, his tiny face screwed up unhappily.

"Sorry," Hammel muttered, and then dropped the book in Gúthwyn's lap.

She examined it carefully to ensure that it was the correct one—it was—and said shortly, "Thank you. Do not go back to your room. I need to speak to Haiweth alone."

He did not even acknowledge her command. He simply turned around and stalked out, leaving behind a screaming Elfwine in his wake.

"Can you not control him?" Lothíriel asked angrily, one eyebrow raised and her teeth gritted in annoyance. She was trying to soothe Elfwine, but as of yet had had no luck.

Gúthwyn longed to ask her if she could not calm her son, but bit back the retort and said, "Raising children is no easy task, as you yourself know. I am sorry for troubling Elfwine; it was certainly not my intent."

"Then pray do not let it happen again," Lothíriel said. With that, she swept from the room, Elfwine's howls fading away until they were only a distant shriek of misery.

Resisting the urge to groan and bury her face in her hands, Gúthwyn got out of her chair and made her way towards the children's room. Haiweth's cries were now reduced to sniffles, but whenever she glanced down at her ruined drawing a fresh wave of tears would burst out.

"Haiweth," Gúthwyn said softly, stepping inside and walking towards the girl.

Haiweth looked up and started sobbing again, her shoulders heaving up and down as she pointed to the mess upon her desk.

"Do you think we could try to put it together?" Éomund's daughter asked, rubbing the girl's back in an attempt to ease her tears.

"N-N-No!" Haiweth exclaimed, her voice rising hysterically. "It is all g-g-_gone!_"

"Would you like to save the pieces?" Gúthwyn offered, gazing at the shredded parchment.

Slowly, Haiweth nodded, hiccupping as she did so. "Y-Yes."

"All right, little one," Gúthwyn said. "I will find something for you to put them in. Also, I am going to speak to Éomer about getting you and Hammel separate rooms."

Haiweth was quelled; her eyes widened as she asked, "Really?"

"Really," Gúthwyn confirmed. "But in the future, if someone asks you to be quiet, should you talk or sing louder?"

"No," Haiweth muttered, kicking at the floor.

"Good," Gúthwyn appraised her. "I am not saying that your brother was right to do what he did—he was not, and he has been punished—yet next time, it would be better if you did not sing so loudly."

"I suppose," Haiweth said dubiously, and then craned her neck to look up at Gúthwyn. "How did you punish him?"

"I took away his book," Gúthwyn informed her.

The girl's face lit up, and she said gleefully, "That will show him! Was he angry?"

"Very much so," Gúthwyn said. "Just be glad that it was not you who had misbehaved."

"I will never be bad," Haiweth declared, and hummed a little tune.


	65. Haiweth's Picture

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixty-Five:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Sixty-Five**

"Gúthwyn?"

Startled, Éomund's daughter glanced up and tensed. Legolas was approaching her table, a tentative smile on his face. "May I join you?" he inquired.

"O-Of course," Gúthwyn said, now regretting that she had not eaten lunch with Cobryn and the advisors, no matter how bored she would have been by the discussion. Instead, she had elected to sit alone, which had the additional advantage of Cobryn not watching her like a hawk to see what she put in her mouth.

But now Legolas slid onto the bench across from her, and almost immediately was swooped down upon by a servant who asked if he would like to take his lunch. Legolas nodded and thanked her; she then turned a pair of worried eyes to Gúthwyn and offered to bring her something else.

"No, thank you," Gúthwyn replied, casting a despairing look at her bowl of stew. She was not even close to finishing half of it. "I am fine."

"My lady, you have hardly eaten anything," the servant pointed out, respectfully but firmly. "Is there not something else that you would prefer?"

"I am fine," Gúthwyn repeated. "Thank you."

The servant sighed, promised Legolas that his food would be ready soon, and went over to the advisors' table. An awkward silence was left in her wake. Gúthwyn cast around for something to say, reasoning that she should not be this inept at entertaining guests. _This would not do in Dol Amroth,_ she thought morosely. _I will probably be the ridicule of many a woman for not being able to do what they have done effortlessly since they were ten._

Such a musing did little to comfort her, and nothing to advance the conversation. Yet the pause was broken when Legolas inquired, "What are your plans for today?"

"Ah…" Gúthwyn's mind deserted her for a moment, leaving a faint buzzing in her head. When she at last recollected herself, she said, "I am not sure. I might go to the training grounds, but if Éomer and Lothíriel have a meeting I will be watching Elfwine."

Legolas nodded, and after remembering she was supposed to reciprocate the question, she asked, "What of yourself?"

"Raniean, Trelan, and I are going to the archery range," Legolas said. As he spoke, she noticed that he had his quiver slung over his back. A small grin came to his mouth as he added, "I think a contest is in due order."

"Do you… do you often compete against them?" Gúthwyn asked, recalling how she had stumbled upon one such event during the Elves' last visit.

"Several times a week," Legolas confirmed.

It was then that the servant returned, bringing with her a steaming bowl of soup and a mug of ale. She set it before the prince carefully, and dropped a curtsy once she had. "Is there anything else you would like, my lord?"

"This is fine, thank you," Legolas replied, and then glanced at Gúthwyn.

"My lady?" the servant queried concernedly, looking at the meal that had not been consumed at all since her last visit.

"No, thank you," Gúthwyn declined.

The servant pursed her lips, but said nothing. Within a moment she had retreated, and Gúthwyn was left alone with Legolas. She sighed and lifted her spoon to her mouth, trying not to feel nauseous as its smell wafted towards her. Part of her felt guilty for not eating much, especially since the cook spent all of her day preparing meals, but she simply could not muster up the appetite.

Once she had swallowed a tiny measure of the broth, wincing as it burned down her throat, she looked back at Legolas, wondering what she should say next. He, however, solved the problem for her.

"Where are Hammel and Haiweth?"

"Haiweth is drawing," Gúthwyn answered, smiling sadly as she thought of how the girl had decided to start her illustration over. "I think Hammel might be with her."

A few days had passed since Éomund's daughter had decided to appeal to her brother in hopes of securing a second room for the children, but when she had done so the only option had been for one of them to move into Éowyn's chambers. As soon as Legolas departed, she would set to work storing the few gowns and possessions that her sister had left behind; then, she would do some cleaning, and finally let Haiweth choose which room she would prefer to have.

"Has Haiweth ever tried painting?" Legolas inquired, taking a sip from his mug.

"No," Gúthwyn replied, "although she is desperate to—yet such a hobby would be rather expensive."

Almost immediately, she realized that she had done the very thing Cobryn had once cautioned her against: discussing money with someone other than Éomer. It was not proper etiquette, he had said, and shrewd listeners might be able to detect that Rohan's financial situation was not as comfortable as desired. That in itself was not much of a secret, but it was always more prudent to avoid the subject altogether.

Yet Legolas did not seem to mind, and hardly even blinked as he responded, "Well, drawing is no less of an art, and she seems quite good at it."

Gúthwyn felt a distinct sense of delight at his comment. "Yes, she is."

Her pride must have shown more clearly than she thought, for Legolas smiled at her words. The briefest thrill of terror raced through her as she recalled Haldor doing the same thing, in the days where she had been so foolishly naïve as to believe he was in love with her—_no,_ she told herself sternly, _do not think of him now._

All the same, she stared back down at the table, not trusting herself to look directly at Legolas anymore. Her soup no longer seemed appetizing, and she stirred it around aimlessly before giving up and sighing.

"Good afternoon, sister."

Éomer's voice startled her, and she jumped before turning toward it and laughing nervously. "Is there a reason you were trying to sneak up on me?" she asked.

Her brother raised an eyebrow; beside him, Lothíriel's expression was similar. "I made no effort to conceal my movements—nor did Elfwine."

The gurgling baby grinned and clapped his hands together. Gúthwyn smiled at him and then said, "I did not hear you, then. Will you be joining us for lunch?"

"We have already eaten," Lothíriel said, and then looked at Legolas. "Is the meal to your satisfaction, my lord?"

"Very much so," Legolas replied, inclining his head. "Thank you."

"Well, I am almost done," Gúthwyn said, shifting slightly so that Éomer could not see the contents of her bowl. "Perhaps—"

Just then, there was a small commotion caused by Haiweth running into the throne room, a piece of paper clutched in one hand and the other lifting the skirt of her gown so that she did not fall. As Gúthwyn knitted her brow in confusion, Hammel emerged from the same corridor, chasing after his sister.

"Haiweth!" he shouted angrily.

His sister ignored him. "Gúthwyn!" she called out, her face lit with feverish delight.

Bewildered, Gúthwyn watched the girl draw closer, Hammel gaining on her all the time. Éomer and Lothíriel stepped aside, it being evident that Haiweth would barrel right through them if they did not. As it was, she nearly crashed into Gúthwyn, and teetered dangerously on her toes before regaining her balance. Breathless, she still managed to declare, "Ihavesomethingforyou!"

Only an arm's length short of his goal, Hammel stopped abruptly, his chest rising up and down unevenly.

"What is it?" Gúthwyn asked, now utterly perplexed as to what had bothered Hammel so much.

"A picture," Haiweth announced with a flourish, and gave the piece of parchment to her. Almost before Éomund's daughter had accepted it, she made a face at Hammel.

Gúthwyn examined the drawing and felt something freeze in her heart. Unlike most of Haiweth's other illustrations, which depicted butterflies, flowers, or princesses frolicking in meadows—the latter always the most amusing, as she could never imagine Lothíriel doing the same thing—this one was a fully developed scene. A group of people were seated in a tent, their faces lit by a lantern on the floor.

Her eyes widened as she began to recognize them. Hammel and Haiweth, two shadowy figures in the corner. Someone who must have been Dîrbenn was nearby, as well as a sleeping person whom she instantly thought was Sîdhadan. There were the other men with whom she had never really interacted, despite having shared the same quarters with them for three years. Lumren was nowhere in sight.

"Do you like it?" Haiweth asked eagerly.

Gúthwyn was about to reply when her gaze flickered over another man, clearly younger than the rest, a kind smile on his face. _Beregil,_ she thought, her heart twisting. Her friend was looking to his left, where two figures sat side by side…

"See?" Haiweth jumped up and down slightly, and then said, "There is me, and Hammel, and Dîrbenn, and Sîdhadan"—she stumbled over the name, and grinned sheepishly—"and Beregil!"

Gúthwyn could not speak; she could only stare at the drawing, at the two hands clasped together.

"And you are in there, also!" Haiweth spoke, some puzzlement beginning to tint her words when Gúthwyn did not respond. "And so is B—"

Without warning, the motion so swift and unprecedented that Gúthwyn never saw it coming, Hammel reached over and clamped his hand down on his sister's mouth. The rest of Borogor's name was reduced to an incoherent babbling, one that neither Éomer, Lothíriel, or Legolas could understand. Haiweth's expression became shocked, but no matter how hard she struggled against Hammel she could not break free.

For a stunned moment, no one did anything. Both Éomer and Lothíriel were gaping at what was normally so calm a boy, seemingly incapable of action. Even Elfwine was silent, his mouth opened somewhat and his eyes as round as dinner plates. Legolas' gaze was narrowed in astonishment, darting back and forth between the two siblings. Gúthwyn also found herself locked in place, her mind filled with an odd buzzing that had taken the place of any rational thought.

It was only when muffled shrieks of panic reached her ears that Éomund's daughter at last came to her senses and said, "Hammel!"

The boy released his sister immediately, his body taut with the severity of what he had just done. Haiweth burst into tears. Before their astounded eyes, she whirled around and punched her brother in the stomach.

"You ruined everything!" she screeched as Hammel flinched, but otherwise remained expressionless. His lack of reply seemed to anger Haiweth even more. She drew herself up to her full height and screamed, "I hate you!"

Before anyone could do anything, she fled from the throne room. Everyone winced as she tripped on the hem of her dress halfway there and landed flat on her face—Gúthwyn leapt to her feet—but she picked herself up almost as quickly as she had fallen and stumbled out of the hall. A few seconds later, the distant _slam_ of a door reverberated in their ears.

With her departure, a thick silence descended upon the group. Hammel's fists were clenched.

_I have to find Haiweth,_ Gúthwyn thought.

Not bothering to explain what had happened, or even to think of how she could possibly begin to without telling Éomer about Borogor, Gúthwyn hastened from the hall. Before she left, she passed by Hammel. Placing her hand on his shoulder and leaning in close, she whispered in his ear, "Thank you."

He nodded, and with that Gúthwyn raced after Haiweth. As she drew nearer to the girl's room, worry quickened her steps: she could not hear anything. Haiweth was a noisy crier, yet no sound came from her chambers.

"Haiweth?" she called tentatively, pressing her ear against the door. She attempted to turn the knob, but the latch was evidently being used, as she could not rotate it at all. Nevertheless, her anxieties were eased somewhat, for she heard a muffled whimpering, though otherwise there was no answer.

"Little one?" Éomund's daughter tried again. "It is Gúthwyn."

She could almost feel the suspicion radiating from Haiweth's room. For a long time, there was no response. Then she heard the faint pattering of feet, until the lock was slid back and Haiweth's tear-stained face revealed.

"Your drawing is beautiful," Gúthwyn said softly.

Haiweth began sobbing again. This time, Gúthwyn wrapped her arms around the child, pulling her close and rubbing her back soothingly.

"I h-h-hate Hammel!" Haiweth choked out against her shoulder, hiccupping at the same time. "He t-tried to kill me!"

"He was not trying to kill you, little one," Gúthwyn corrected quietly.

"B-But I could n-not breathe!" Haiweth cried.

"I will speak to him," Gúthwyn vowed, wondering how on earth she could reasonably punish him while being thankful for what he had done. "I know you must have put a lot of work into the picture."

Haiweth nodded frantically, her breath hitching with each motion.

"I am going to put it someplace safe," Gúthwyn told her, fully aware that she would never have the courage to display it the way Haiweth deserved it to be. To see Borogor's face every time she walked into her room would be too much; nor could she risk anyone asking questions.  
"Y-You liked it?" Haiweth asked, a faint ray of hope dawning on her face.

"I love it," Gúthwyn replied, and then stepped back to examine her. "You fell," she said, frowning. "Are you hurt?"

Haiweth gingerly hitched up her skirt, displaying two scraped knees. "Not a lot," she muttered.

"They should be cleaned," Gúthwyn pointed out. After having seen a man die from infection in Mordor, and coming close to doing so herself, she was not willing to take any chances with the children—regardless of how foolish her precautions were.

"Do they have to?" Haiweth whined, letting her dress fall back down.

"Yes, little one," Gúthwyn said, gently but firmly. "It will not do to have them dirty."

Haiweth sighed in annoyance, but eventually gave in. Gúthwyn left her then with the promise of returning with a bucket of water and some rags. As she was about to go through the hall, she nearly crashed into Éomer, who had evidently been coming to check on her.

"Is everything all right?" he inquired.

Now exceedingly glad that she had left the drawing with Haiweth, Gúthwyn replied, "Yes, it is."

"Why did Hammel stop her from speaking?" Éomer wanted to know, his shrewd gaze fixed on her.

Gúthwyn swallowed: she had not yet figured a way around that. "Ah…" For nearly a full minute, she cast around for an excuse. But the same blankness that had cleared her mind of any reasonable thought when Haiweth had given her the illustration returned, and at last she had no choice but to say, "He thought that something would upset me."

"What would upset you?" Éomer asked swiftly, drawing closer to her.

"Nothing," Gúthwyn replied just as quickly. "Please, brother."

Although he gave her a look, he said only, "All is well with you?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn confirmed. A brief smile came to her face as she realized that, despite how much pain it might bring her at first, she would always have a likeness of Borogor to cherish in the faraway land of Dol Amroth. It was something that she could never show Elphir, but it would be hers to hold whenever she grew lonely. Haiweth had done her a service, after all.

_Thank you, little one._


	66. Washing Away the Filth

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixty-Six:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Sixty-Six**

Dinner that evening was a subdued affair. Haiweth remained resolutely furious at Hammel, causing a minor scene when she refused to sit next to him. Gúthwyn ended up placing herself between them, but was keenly aware that the children's actions had received the unwanted attention of Lothíriel. The queen clearly thought that their behavior had been inappropriate, and was even frostier to her than usual.

Both Éomer and Legolas tactfully avoided mention of the afternoon's incident, and spent much of the night discussing the best ways to go about managing a kingdom's affairs. This nearly bored Gúthwyn to sleep, which she had been lacking due to nightmares, and it took much effort to keep from collapsing at the table. Haiweth, who was not as good at concealing her emotions, almost nodded off several times before Éomund's daughter gently prodded her awake.

Only adding to Gúthwyn's drowsiness was the fact that Elfwine was not present, as he had thrown a fit the night before and flung food everywhere, most of it directed at an unfortunate Lothíriel. Whenever her nephew was at the table, Gúthwyn was always entertained, for he was an enthusiastic eater and babbled constantly, even when no one was watching him.

Yet now there was nothing to pay attention to, other than Éomer and Legolas' dull at best conversation, and Gúthwyn occupied herself by thinking about her earlier talk with Cobryn. He had sought her out when she had emerged from cleaning Haiweth's knees, having just been informed by Hammel about what had happened. She suspected that the boy had at least mentioned the presence of the man she loved in the drawing, for he had inquired as to whether she was all right and had looked at her closely while she gave her answer.

Now she wondered if Cobryn did not know Borogor's name; he had an uncanny knack for discovering her secrets, even if she did not begrudge him of it. Yet Borogor was the one name she had not given him. It was the one part of her history that he did not know and understand, that was completely hidden to all but herself, Hammel, and Haiweth. Faramir knew only that she loved him—he did not know how much he had sacrificed for her sake, or the depth of her devotion to him. Not even the children were aware of what they had gone through on account of each other.

"Gúthwyn," a voice muttered then, and she realized that Hammel was tugging on the sleeve of her dress.

"Yes?" she asked.

His response was to point across the table. Gúthwyn looked up and saw both Éomer and Legolas watching her, their faces expectant as if awaiting an answer. For a few seconds, she attempted to think of what they could possibly have been saying. At length she gave up and apologized, "I am sorry—I was lost in my thoughts."

"I am afraid your discourse was not captivating enough to hold my sister's attention," Éomer said to Legolas, smirking at her as she blushed in mortification. "She has long abhorred anything to do with politics."

"I am sorry," Gúthwyn said again. "It has nothing to do with you; I was thinking about"—she paused for the briefest second—"Cobryn."

She only realized what the sentence had sounded like when Lothíriel's eyes narrowed, her gaze shooting arrows that would have slain Gúthwyn if they were but a little fiercer. Even Éomer raised an eyebrow.

"Cobryn?" he repeated.

"Yes," Gúthwyn replied, her cheeks now bright pink. _As if there are not already rumors going around Edoras about the two of us!_ "We spoke earlier today. He was telling me about… Hammel's studies." Her faltering was almost imperceptible, but when she next glanced at the queen she knew it had not gone undetected. Gúthwyn inwardly cringed, knowing that Lothíriel might still think that she was in love with Cobryn—even though she was as good as betrothed to Elphir.

"Are they going well?" Éomer asked then, though his words were directed to Hammel.

The boy merely nodded, ending all further speech on that subject.

"Legolas, what were you saying?" Gúthwyn finally inquired. "I did not hear it."

"I was wondering if Éowyn had yet extended you an invitation to visit her," Legolas responded, his eyes holding no trace of annoyance at her lack of attention. "Emyn Arnen is a beautiful place."

"So I have heard," Gúthwyn commented. She, too, had been entranced by Ithilien upon the first sight of it—yet now she loathed the place, and would not travel there unless she had no other alternative. "And yes, Éowyn has mentioned that I may see journey there whenever I please."

Éomer's eyes met hers briefly as she said this. In the three years it had been since Éowyn had married, she had not taken her sister up on the offer, while the White Lady had returned to her home twice. Gúthwyn sighed, and looked down at her plate. She still had some of her bread left. Disinterestedly she tore a piece off and ate it, wishing that it were not necessary for one's survival to eat.

_To think that I used to yearn for more food in Isengard,_ she mused, hardly able to believe that there had been a time when she was famished. Now, it seemed that she could go nearly all day without sustenance, and feel only the faint beginnings of hunger. _When was the last time I had a full meal?_ she wondered, struggling to recall when she had consumed a whole portion of stew in addition to her bread.

She was pulled out of her thoughts by Éomer commenting, "Sister, it has been long since we sparred together."

Almost immediately, Gúthwyn nodded. "Far too long," she agreed. "You have not been there often."

"Nor have you," he pointed out.

It was true: much of her time had been lately devoted to taking care of Elfwine. _Perhaps I should practice whenever I have a nightmare,_ she thought. This she had done when she was with the Fellowship; the fluid motions of the blade had always helped to calm her. If she could find a place where she was able to train in secret…

"Do you have any free time tomorrow?" she inquired then, remembering that she was supposed to be maintaining a conversation with her brother.

"I believe so," Éomer answered, smiling. "In fact, it may be the only day this week that I do not have a meeting. Shall I set aside some time in the afternoon?"

"That would be wonderful," Gúthwyn said with a grin. She had not had the opportunity to be alone with her brother for awhile; now, she was glad that such a grievance would be mended.

"_After_ you have eaten," Éomer then told her, shooting a pointed glance at her plate. Obediently, Gúthwyn took another bite of her bread, hardly even marking its taste as it slid down her throat. _What is wrong with me?_ she wondered suddenly. _Why do I have to be told to eat like others? Did I not use to have a normal diet?_

When she next glanced up, it was to meet Legolas' eyes. For half a second she froze; then she regained control of herself and gave a tentative smile. He returned it and then spoke, "Forgive me if I seem too forward, but that color looks excellent on you."

It was all Gúthwyn could do not to cringe. She had gone riding in the late afternoon, which had effectively made her day dress not suitable for evening wear. Unfortunately, one of the maids had just given birth to a son, and as a result it was taking longer for the laundry to be completed. Upon opening her wardrobe that night, Éomund's daughter had despaired to see that only her white gowns were left.

"Just as I have always said!" Éomer cried triumphantly. "Gúthwyn, what think you of that?"

"Thank you," Gúthwyn murmured quietly to Legolas, her cheeks flaming at the unwanted compliment. All of a sudden she felt dirty, as if she had just spread her legs for Haldor and was struggling to capture her breath as he filled her. She did not deserve to wear white—someone like Lothíriel, who was faithful to her husband and had been pure when they married, did—not she who had been taken at the age of sixteen, with less dignity to the act than that of a man lying with his mistress.

_No,_ she thought wildly. _Why are you thinking of this? You are supposed to be forgetting him! Why is that such a difficult task?_

"It is nearly impossible to convince Gúthwyn to wear white," Éomer confided to Legolas, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Éomund's daughter knew that he was teasing her, but she wished that he would not, for she was growing more uncomfortable by the minute.  
"She has an odd aversion to it," Lothíriel contributed lightly. "Though perhaps there may be a reason for such a sentiment that she is concealing from us."

The words, in all their appearance, were not accusatory, but Gúthwyn had the unsettling sensation that Lothíriel was also thinking of how she was not a virgin. She flushed crimson in mortification, looking back down at her plate.

"_I_ think she looks pretty in it," Haiweth declared, grinning. Despite her embarrassment, Gúthwyn could not help but smile at the girl's words.

"Thank you, Haiweth," she said, her voice far more grateful than when she had been responding to Legolas.

Haiweth beamed, pleased at having her compliment so well-received, and then asked, "Why do you not like to wear it?"

"That is what I want to know," Éomer said.

"I prefer grey," Gúthwyn answered shortly, her tone making it clear that she had no desire to be interrogated any further. "Legolas, a few nights ago you mentioned that you were still visiting Elladan and Elrohir. Is it the redrawing of boundaries that need your attention, or are their other matters of concern to your realms?"

It was not a subtle change of topic, but it worked. Legolas gave a brief explanation of Mirkwood and Lothlórien's affairs, which then led to Éomer asking him various other questions. Before long, Gúthwyn was able to ease out of the conversation without being detected, and spent the rest of the dinner waiting for it to be over. It seemed to drag itself out for an eternity.

For, now that her white dress had been pointed out to the diners, she could not shake the paranoia that everyone was staring at it, inwardly mocking her for daring to wear a color that symbolized purity. She could almost sense Haldor hovering at her shoulder, hissing _whore_ in her ear and sliding a hand down to rest on her stomach. Try as she might to ignore the feeling, it remained as close to her as her undergarments, and she could not be rid of it.

Thus it was no surprise when, as the servants were clearing the table, Éomer looked over at her and said, "Sister, you seem pale. Are you all right?"

"Y-Yes," Gúthwyn stuttered, resisting the urge to shudder. All she wanted to do was return to her chambers and remove her dress; if it was not too late, she would take a bath afterwards. Tomorrow she would clean her own gowns if she had to, something she had not done since the sheet incident, just so that she would not have to wear white again.

"Are you sure?" Éomer pressed concernedly.

"Yes. I am simply tired," Gúthwyn lied, and then pushed her chair back. "Will you excuse me? I am going to turn in early."

"Of course," Éomer answered, inclining his head. "Sleep well."

Gúthwyn thanked him and rose. She gave a deferential curtsy to Legolas. "Goodnight, my lord," she murmured, hoping he would not give much thought to her wan complexion.

"Goodnight," he merely said, his eyes displaying little of his emotions. Gúthwyn swallowed and turned to the children.

"It is getting late," she told them, which was not altogether false. "Will you go to your room in ten minutes?"

Haiweth made a show of pouting, but at length both of them agreed. Gúthwyn placed a kiss on each of their heads—much to Hammel's discomfort—and then gave one last curtsy. The hammering of her heart echoed in her chest as she swiftly made her way out of the hall, her white dress all the while clinging to her like a layer of dirt. _Why did you have to point it out?_ she silently asked Éomer. _I had almost forgotten that I was wearing it!_

When she came to her room, she was not startled to see the door open. Most of the servants did not leave the Golden Hall until its inhabitants were finished with dinner, as they tended to do the cleaning at night. Hoping that it was one of the maids who had not yet established Lothíriel as their preferred mistress, Gúthwyn glanced into her chambers. She was relieved to see Elflede, dusting her trunk and humming an old tune to herself.

"Elflede?" Gúthwyn questioned, stepping into the room.

The younger woman started, but upon seeing it was Éomund's daughter she hastily curtsied. "Forgive me, my lady—I did not know you would be back so soon."

"I was tired," Gúthwyn explained. "Ah—this may seem like a strange request, but would it be possible for you to draw up a bath?"

For a moment, Elflede blinked in surprise, and Gúthwyn felt her cheeks reddening. "I am sorry," she apologized. "If you cannot, that is f—"

"Of course I can," Elflede recovered swiftly, curtsying again. "I will go down to the well right now."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said sincerely, slightly ashamed for inconveniencing the woman at such an hour but unable to shake the feeling of uncleanliness.

Once Elflede had departed, Gúthwyn retrieved the privacy screen from behind her wardrobe and set it up in a corner, throwing a blanket over it for added protection. She had never let any of the maids see her unclothed, and did not even like the idea of them seeing her shadow as she bathed. It made her shiver to think that she would soon be baring herself before Elphir, their bodies pressed together in the most intimate of acts.

Struggling not to be sick, Gúthwyn waited impatiently for Elflede to return, longing for when she could tear off her dress and wash away everything. It seemed to take ages for the maid to come back, but when she did the steam was rising from the tops of two large buckets.

"Here, let me take one," Gúthwyn quickly said, helping to lessen some of her burden.

"Thank you, my lady," Elflede breathed, looking very grateful to be able to put the containers down. Gúthwyn felt another twinge of guilt, but when she glanced at the hot water she was glad that she had asked for it.

Elflede left the room again, this time to retrieve the bathtub. It was another minute before she returned: the bath, which was generally placed in one of the storage rooms, was made of wood and did not weigh much, but it was awkward to carry. Gúthwyn aided her in placing it behind the screen, and when the maid went to get the towels and soap she filled it with the water. The sight of the steam drifting upwards was enough to make her want to take off her dress and sit down in it immediately, but she did not want Elflede to walk in on her while she was doing so.

At length, Elflede came back and deposited the soap and linens. She lingered long enough to inquire as to whether Éomund's daughter would like any assistance, but when the obvious answer was given she curtsied and exited.

"Thank you!" Gúthwyn called after her.

Once the door had closed, she began removing her dress as fast as she possibly could. As soon as she had pulled herself free from its grip, she kicked it away from her and stepped into the water. It was so hot that she nearly scalded herself, but she let out a sigh and sank even further into it. _Thank the Valar,_ she thought wearily, settling into the basin and resting her head against the rim.

She was almost completely immersed under the water. Imagining it wiping away all of the traces of grime from her dress, she felt even better. Eager to be clean, she took the soap and began lathering it all over herself. She paid extra attention—yet averted her eyes from—the brand upon her wrist, but no matter what she did it would never fade from her body. A few times, she had contemplated shaving it off with a knife, but she had always balked whenever she held the blade to her skin.

After she finished scrubbing, Gúthwyn let herself relax, drumming her fingers along the sill of the basin and enjoying the knowledge that she was now free of the filth that had accumulated on her skin. _I need to do this more often,_ she thought to herself. She needed to take some time for herself, rather than dividing it between the children (as much as she loved them) and worrying about everything.

She even allowed herself a small fantasy, in which Borogor was beside her and giving her shoulders a much-welcomed massage. Rather than cringe from the idea of him seeing her unclothed, for he had already done so, or berate herself for picturing them so close to each other, she felt her muscles loosening in response. _What I would not give to have him with me…_ she thought, picturing him gently kissing her neck as he carried out his ministrations.

"My lady?"

Gúthwyn was abruptly pulled out of her musings by the sound of Elflede's concerned voice filtering in through the door. "Yes?" she called, sighing wistfully.

"Is there anything I can get you?"

Again, Gúthwyn sighed, wishing that Elflede had delayed her inquiry. "Actually, I am done," she said.

The door opened, and Gúthwyn hastily got out of the bathtub, shivering violently in the sudden assault of cool air. Before the maid could come around the screen, she wrapped a towel tightly around herself, and held a second in front of her just in case.

"Was the water warm enough?" Elflede asked as she appeared with the buckets, ready to empty out the basin before bringing it back to the storage room.

"Yes, it was perfect," Gúthwyn replied. "A thousand thanks."

Elflede somehow managed a curtsy, even under the cumbersome weight of a full container of water. _I cannot do that,_ Gúthwyn realized. _How will I ever be suited to life in Dol Amroth?_

The next instant, she sternly told herself, _Do not think about that place. Wait until you awake tomorrow._

When Elflede left the room, she took the privacy screen and moved it to her wardrobe, where she would be able to change into a shift without being seen. Recalling the heat of the water, she put a thick robe over her nightgown and slipped on a pair of soft, booted slippers that Éomer had given her one winter. Although her body still sporadically shivered from the memory of the chilly room, she was pleasantly warm and cozy.

_I feel excellent,_ she thought with a broad smile, emerging from behind the screen. _Perhaps my rest will not even be disturbed by nightmares!_

As Elflede came back for the towels, she glanced at Gúthwyn and said earnestly, "My lady, you look wonderful."

Gúthwyn blushed. "Thank you," she replied happily.

Elflede smiled, and then finished the last of the cleaning. They bade each other good night; soon, Gúthwyn was alone, pulling back the comforter on her bed and ready to fall asleep. All the while, she prayed that she would not be troubled by thoughts of her past. _Just one night without any dreams whatsoever,_ she pleaded to the Valar. _Grant me that small thing._

Then she crawled into bed, laid her head down on the pillow, and closed her eyes. She did not wake until the next morning.


	67. Silence From Dol Amroth

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixty-Seven:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Sixty-Seven**

"Hush, little one," Gúthwyn whispered to Elfwine, placing a kiss on his brow. He fussed irritably in response, his misery augmented by a sudden spate of sneezing.

Éomund's daughter pitied him. He had just contracted a small cold, and had spent most of the day with a running nose. She knew exactly how he felt, having caught the illness more times than she could recall simply in the past year. To make matters worse for the one in his arms, neither his mother nor his father could take care of him: Rohan was beginning to show the signs of a food shortage, and they were in the middle of a meeting regarding the matter.

"I know you feel awful," Gúthwyn said consolingly to her nephew, "but soon you will be better. That is why we are out here, so you can get some fresh air."

Elfwine mumbled something blearily, sticking a tiny fist into his eye and rotating it before sneezing again. Wishing there was something she could do to alleviate his discomfort, she settled on tucking the blanket more securely around him and cradling him closer to her chest as she continued down the street.

Occasionally she stopped to speak to people, but for the most part she was alone with Elfwine, talking to him quietly and trying to keep him as warm as possible. The air was frigid, causing shivers to ripple through her body even though she had donned her fur cloak and a thick woolen dress.

Halfway down the street, she saw something that made her heart race: Legolas returning from the archery range, his bow slung over his back as he spoke laughingly with Trelan—or was it Raniean? She could never remember their names. One was more aloof than the other, and had barely said a single word to her, but both of them wreaked equal havoc on her nerves.

She struggled to maintain a façade of collection as they drew nearer, and swallowed hard when Legolas caught sight of her. As Elfwine sneezed violently, she held her nephew tighter. Somehow, her lips managed to form a smile in response to Legolas' wave. She did not approach him and his friend, yet nor did she step away as they came towards her.

"Good afternoon," Legolas bade her, inclining his head. The Elf beside him did not speak; he merely looked at her, adding to her nervousness.

"G-Good afternoon," Gúthwyn repeated, not sure what else to say.

"How is Elfwine?" Legolas inquired, watching as the little prince sneezed and whimpered unhappily.

"He has a cold," Gúthwyn explained. "You poor thing," she murmured to the baby, stroking his hair.

"It is not serious," Legolas said, his statement trailing off so that it sounded more like a question.

"No, it is not," Gúthwyn quickly told him, glad that this was the case. "He—"

It was then that the second Elf turned to Legolas and spoke to him in their tongue, of which she understood not a word. The prince answered swiftly, nodding. Without another glance at Éomund's daughter, the Elf nodded at him and continued up the street, returning as a lone figure to Meduseld.

Gúthwyn met Legolas' eyes in confusion, wondering why he had behaved in that matter.

"Raniean thinks mortals are all but insufferable," Legolas said, chuckling. "He does not understand why I associate myself with them."

She could not tell whether he was jesting or not. Why would an Elf who had had next to no experience with humans deem them beneath him? A spark of irritation ignited within her. "Perhaps he should be less critical of the people who have provided him with food and shelter for the better part of a week."

"He has always been like that," Legolas quickly informed her. "You and your brother should take no offense at it. He has many admirable qualities—this is simply an old prejudice that some of my kind have, just as there are some mortals who will have nothing to do with Elves."

He did not glance at her accusingly, but Gúthwyn bit her lip and turned bright red, realizing that she had treated Legolas far worse when they had first met. She had not been aware of Raniean's feelings concerning humans until the prince had explicitly stated them; yet she had made her hatred towards Elves so obvious that others must have marveled at her ignorance. Even now, she could not be around them for long periods of time, and tried to stay away from them whenever possible.

When she found herself tongue-tied and unable to say anything for embarrassment, Legolas commented quietly, "Your sleep was undisturbed by nightmares."

For a moment, she blinked, wondering how he could have known that—and then remembered that he went outside every night to gaze at the stars, and would have noticed her absence. "Indeed," she said, and could not help but grin. "It was long overdue."

"I am glad to hear it," Legolas replied, smiling. "You looked pale when you left dinner—I had hoped that your rest would not be troubled."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said, touched by his consideration. She likely would not have noticed if it had been he who was feeling ill, much less wished for his subsequent well-being. And after the way she had treated him…

Elfwine sneezed, bringing her back to her senses. "Oh, little one," she murmured sympathetically, wiping his nose with a handkerchief she retrieved from a pocket in her cloak. "I am sorry you have to be so unhappy."

Sighing, she glanced up. "I hope he recovers quickly," she said, though it was more to herself than to Legolas.

"He is normally healthy, correct?" the prince questioned, watching as Elfwine blew a half-hearted spit bubble.

"Yes," Gúthwyn confirmed, beginning to rock the king's heir back and forth.

"Then I have no doubt that he will swiftly return to such a state."

Something about the way in which he spoke comforted her. "Thank you," she said again, and smiled.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" Legolas inquired then, his eyes fixing on hers.

"No," Gúthwyn answered after a moment's hesitation. She could not help but feel a sense of trepidation as he opened his mouth.

"I hope this is not too personal," the Elf began, appearing awkward, "but… is there a reason why Hammel did not wish you to see Haiweth's drawing?"

Gúthwyn stiffened, the pressure of her hands upon Elfwine increasing the slightest bit. Her tenseness must have been more obvious than she thought, for Legolas quickly shook his head and said, "I did not mean to pry."

"No, it is just…" Gúthwyn found herself struggling for the right words. Unlike with Éomer, she could not say, "Hammel thought that something would upset me." Legolas would find that strange, and likely wonder at her sanity. After all, it was only a child's drawing. Nay, she could not treat the two queries in the same manner.

"Forget that I asked," Legolas said when she showed no signs of response. "It is not important."

"It was about Mordor," Gúthwyn blurted out, and felt her cheeks turn bright red.

His eyes widened slightly. "She drew… she drew the Black Land?"

"No." Gúthwyn sighed, the illustration flashing in front of her before receding into the background of her mind. "She drew some of the warriors I had known. Hammel thought I would not like it."

"Ah," Legolas said, for a moment not looking at her. The mark on Gúthwyn's wrist prickled uncomfortably.

There was a pause then, and she cast about for something to say. "You are leaving tomorrow?" she finally settled on, though she knew perfectly well what the answer was.

"I am," Legolas confirmed, nodding. "My companions and I have taken advantage of your brother's hospitality long enough."

"You are not taking advantage of us," Gúthwyn said hastily. "We… we enjoy your company."

As she talked she flushed, hoping that he would not detect any insincerity in her words. She wanted so desperately to be able to look forward to his visits, and yet she could not. Whenever she tried to speak with him, memories of Haldor would swarm around her and she would become anxious, unable to say anything without stuttering, reduced to counting each correctly-uttered phrase a small step to victory. Yet no matter how much she shied away from Legolas, he was always kind to her, and behaved far more politely towards her than he had reason to.

"Gúthwyn?"

Jumping, Éomund's daughter realized that she had been completely ignoring her guest, as well as a squirming Elfwine. "Be still, little one," she murmured, swaying gently to calm him. "I promise, we can go inside soon and see if your father is done with his meeting."

Then she looked at Legolas. "I am sorry," she apologized. "What were you saying?"

"Nothing," Legolas replied. "Yet you seemed distressed about something."

Gúthwyn was not sure what to say; she bit her lip, not wanting to confide in him, but unsure of how to dispel his concerns. "I am fine," she at last muttered. She had to repress the urge to wince as she recalled Cobryn telling her that those words indicated just how _not_ fine she was. _Legolas does not know that,_ she told herself. _He has not been around you as long as Cobryn has. Even Éomer is probably unaware of the fact._

Luckily, Elfwine chose that moment to start wriggling frantically in her arms. "I should go inside," Gúthwyn told Legolas, and scraped together a sloppy curtsy. _That was not up to Dol Amroth's standards,_ she found herself thinking.

Legolas nodded, and gave a far more graceful bow. "Thank you for your time," he responded. "I hope I have not aggravated his condition."

"He just wants his father," Gúthwyn assured him, and then kissed Elfwine's brow. "Come, little one," she whispered as she turned away and began striding towards Meduseld. "Éomer should be done with his council by now."

She was on the landing when she paused and looked back. Legolas had remained where she left him, his figure standing out to her even though he was surrounded by people. Their eyes met and he smiled. Something was different about his expression, but then Gúthwyn saw only brown as her hair was whipped into her face by the wind. Ducking her head against the gale, she retreated inside, holding Elfwine close to her chest and intent on finding Éomer.

* * *

Legolas departed the next morning, and with him left many of the nightmares that had been plaguing Gúthwyn that week. She resumed her usual schedule, joining the men for training practice shortly after she awoke and returning late in the afternoon to spend time with the children or Elfwine. As the ground began to thaw and the last vestiges of winter melted away, the food supply became less of a concern, and Éomer was able to join her in her activities more often.

Meanwhile, the negotiations with Prince Imrahil continued. At this point, Gúthwyn had ceased pressing Cobryn for details, as she did not understand nor really care about what they could possibly be discussing at this point. He did not inform her of what was happening, knowing that she did not wish to cloud her days with the tidings. Despite this consideration on his part, she was coming to dread her birthday even more than usual, as she had the sneaking suspicion that Éomer was still intent on having the papers signed before that date.

Yet the thing troubling her the most was not the looming date of her marriage. It was the man himself. Elphir had not written to her at all over the winter; the last time she had received a letter from him was when he sought to persuade her to accept the idea of a union. Since then, there had been silence. Gúthwyn was unable to imagine why he could be ignoring her, especially since they might as well have been betrothed.

_He must be busy,_ she thought as she dipped her quill into the inkbottle. _After all, being the prince of Dol Amroth cannot be an easy station to fill._

Yet she had often repeated this to herself, and it was beginning to lose its effect. _Why can he not even bother to tell me that he is too occupied to write?_ she wondered, sighing. _Have I displeased him in some way?_

She set the quill to the parchment and began to write.

_Lord Elphir,_

_I pray you do not believe me nagging for this, but I am surprised that you have not been continuing our correspondence. If I have offended you somehow—which I hope I have not—please inform me so that I might take the necessary steps to correct it. Your letters have always brightened my days, and it disheartens me to think that it is not the same for you. I realize that you must have a full schedule, and I do not wish to interrupt it, but I am anxiously awaiting your response._

Again, Gúthwyn sighed. What was she supposed to say now? She felt that it would be too abrupt to switch into an account of Hammel and Haiweth's latest doings, which for the most part were simply new books that the former was reading and illustrations done by the latter. She had already told him about them getting separate rooms—Hammel had taken Éowyn's chambers, while Haiweth had remained in their original location—and she had already commented about Hammel's lack of progress at sword fighting.

Perhaps she could inquire about Alphros…

However, before she could act on that thought, there was a sharp and impatient series of knocks on the door. "Who is it?" she called, craning her neck to look over her shoulder.

"Lothíriel."

The curt tone served as a fresh reminder that the queen still disliked her. Gradually, she was coming to consider the feeling mutual. Although neither of them had argued since Imrahil's letter announcing his intent to marry Gúthwyn to Elphir, the tensions had not dispersed, and were even more pronounced than usual.

Nevertheless, Éomund's daughter paused only for the barest second before replying, "Come in."

The door swung open a few inches, and Lothíriel stuck her head in the minimal amount that was required for them to see each other properly. "Dinner is ready," she said.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied, and set down her quill. The queen was about to close the door again when something came to her, and she exclaimed, "Wait!"

Lothíriel stopped, but her angry expression made Gúthwyn uneasily aware of the fact that she had just given a command to the queen. In spite of this she continued, not wanting to pass up the opportunity. "Have you spoken to your brother of late?"

She was rewarded with a delicately arched eyebrow. "Which one?" Lothíriel asked coolly, though she clearly knew perfectly well to whom Gúthwyn was referring.

"Elphir," Gúthwyn answered, taking a deep breath and ordering herself not to grow irritated with the other woman.

"Yes," Lothíriel said, her eyes glittering. Gúthwyn had a sneaking suspicion that the queen had just guessed correctly what was troubling her. This was only confirmed as she added, with the faintest trace of a smile, "He writes to me frequently. Why would you ask?"

Gúthwyn felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her. Obviously Elphir was not so occupied that he could not compose a letter; yet he was not taking the time to write to his future wife! She gritted her teeth in humiliation and questioned tightly, "He has not been maintaining our correspondence, and usually he is prompt. I was merely wondering if you knew the reason for this."

"I do not," Lothíriel said haughtily, a flickering gleam of triumph in her eye that made Gúthwyn both mortified and furious. To rub the salt further into the wound, the queen remarked, "He has not mentioned you in our exchanges, nor your children."

"They are not—"

"However, he is a very busy man, as his station requires. While you may have time to write letters to him, I would expect that he does not. Now, is that all?"

The abrupt manner in which Lothíriel ended the conversation made Gúthwyn blink, and she momentarily lost focus of what the matter at hand was before conceding. "Yes, it is," she sighed, and stood up. "I am sorry for bothering you."

Lothíriel's response was to close the door. Gúthwyn heard her footsteps fading away until there was silence. It weighed heavily upon her, interrupted only by a faint verse of song from Haiweth's room.

_Why is Elphir not writing to me?_ she wondered with renewed agitation. _What have I done to anger him?_

She fretted over this as she stepped out into the hall and rounded up the children. _Does my speech bore him?_ she asked herself, trying to recall various phrases from her previous letters. _Does Imrahil not want him to contact me until we marry?_

_That cannot be true,_ she thought immediately afterwards, sitting down at the table across from her brother. _I cannot imagine that Imrahil would do such a thing._

"What is wrong, sister?" Éomer asked then, startling her out of her musings. "You seem preoccupied," he explained when she looked at him. His brow was knitted in concern.

"I was thinking about Elphir," Gúthwyn said quietly, repressing the urge to sigh. Hammel's eyes narrowed, but he held his silence.

"May I inquire as to what about him it is that has diverted you so?"

"He has not written to me for months," Gúthwyn confessed, flushing as Lothíriel's gaze turned cold with barely perceptible amusement. She could almost hear the queen mocking her. _You cannot even hold onto your betrothed? How do you expect him to be attentive to you when you are married?_

In stark contrast to his wife, Éomer now appeared confused. "That is odd," he murmured. "Neither he nor Imrahil have expressed any discontent in the negotiations. Perhaps he is merely busy."

Lothíriel did not point out that she had been receiving letters from her brother; Gúthwyn was too ashamed to.

"In any case, baby sister," Éomer said with an affectionate smile, "I cannot imagine that you have annoyed him in any way. He is just as eager to marry you as he has always been."

Gúthwyn bit her lip. "Thank you, brother," she responded quietly, and did not press the subject. Only Cobryn, on the other side of Hammel, seemed to think the matter was worth further concern: He gave her a long look, one that she had come to associate with a pending interrogation.

Despite the fact that she was somewhat assured by Éomer's words—at least, that she had not angered Elphir somehow, for she had not wanted to hear that he was still greatly anticipating their marriage—Gúthwyn could not help but feel that something was amiss. She did not believe Elphir to be the sort of person who would drop a correspondence without elucidation.

So why was he refusing to communicate with her?


	68. All the King's Horses

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixty-Eight:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Sixty-Eight**

"Come on, Elfwine!" Gúthwyn encouraged her nephew, her face alight with anticipation. "You are so close!"

Elfwine broke into a stream of babbling, and crawled forward another few paces. He had just begun to do so a week ago; before, he had been moving around on his stomach.

"Almost there!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, waving the block in front of him. Enticed by the promise of the toy, the baby pushed a couple of feet further. He made a valiant grab for the cube and missed.

Grinning, Gúthwyn said, "So close!"

For a moment, Elfwine lost his stability, and fell down to the ground. Luckily, Gúthwyn had spread a thick blanket on top of the wooden floor, and he was more startled than harmed. Almost immediately he pulled himself back up. Another foot was gained, and he laughed at his proximity to her.

Despite the fact that her knees, pressing into the ground, were starting to pain her, Éomund's daughter would not even think about shifting positions until her nephew had gotten his toy. He was reaching towards her again, this time only a few inches short of his goal. His eyes were wide with anticipation, and he was talking louder than before. Gúthwyn imitated some of the sounds, unable to resist the temptation.

The throne room was deserted, Éomer and Lothíriel holding a council in the private chamber. It was the month of February now, and much thought had to be given to the crops that were to be planted this year. Neither they nor Cobryn had been getting much sleep; evidently, after the past winter's food shortage, they had no desire to repeat the mistake. Gúthwyn was charged with watching Elfwine while his parents were busy, a task that she did not mind in the least.

Both Hammel and Haiweth were otherwise occupied, the latter playing with some children in the thin layer of snow that still coated the ground. Gúthwyn was not entirely sure where Hammel was or what he was doing, but she trusted him to stay out of trouble and would not be worried unless he did not show up for dinner.

Elfwine's triumphant cry brought her out of her musings. She blinked and saw her nephew's hand mere inches away from her face; then it swiped downwards, whacking the block out of her grasp. It fell to the ground with a soft _thump_, followed by an ecstatic shriek of glee.

"Great job!" Gúthwyn congratulated her nephew wholeheartedly, bending over and kissing his forehead. He gnawed on the block for awhile, but after a few minutes threw it away from him in disinterest.

Gúthwyn chuckled at this. "I see," she said dryly. "Next time, I shall have to find something more entertaining for you, little one."

Elfwine gave an impish grin, and with that he grabbed her legs and attempted to crawl on top of them.

"What are you doing, silly?" she asked in amusement, poking him on the nose. He giggled and tugged at her hair; then he rolled over and pointed at the door. His innocent expression as he watched her expectantly was too much, and she burst out laughing. "Alright," she conceded, ruffling the mop of dark curls on his head. "Do you want to go outside, then?"

The king's heir made several noises of assent, to which Gúthwyn responded by standing up. Immediately, he gazed up at her with pleading eyes, and she swiftly lifted him and settled his warm weight on her hip. "Let us find your blanket," she murmured. Although the weather was becoming milder, she would not risk her nephew catching another cold or a worse disease.

Elfwine was complacent as she walked out of the hall and towards his parents' chambers. She tiptoed past the council room, not wanting to disturb any of the advisors. Mercifully, the baby in her arms seemed to sense the need to be quiet, and apart from yawning once or twice did not make a sound.

She was slipping into Éomer's quarters, congratulating herself on being so silent, when a distinctly irritated voice asked, "What are you doing here?"

It was Nethiel. Gúthwyn's eyes narrowed as she saw the maid, her hands paused in the folding of various garments to glare at Éomund's daughter.

"I am retrieving Elfwine's blanket," Gúthwyn said tightly, willing herself to remain calm. The infant in question stuck his fingers in his mouth, clearly unsettled at the hostilities between the two women. "Have you seen it?"

"No," Nethiel replied haughtily, and without another word resumed her task.

Gúthwyn gritted her teeth in annoyance, having the growing urge to strike the servant. Yet that would not accomplish anything, other than having Lothíriel become even angrier with her. So she was left with no choice but to begin searching through her brother's drawers, hoping to find Elfwine's favorite brown blanket. The others, she knew, needed to be laundered. For nearly seven minutes she looked, Elfwine growing increasingly restless. When Lothíriel's wardrobe yielded the same results, she nearly groaned in frustration.

That was when she turned around and saw Nethiel calmly folding the dark square of fabric, humming a faint tune.

"Thank you so much for helping me," Gúthwyn spat, reaching forward and yanking the blanket out of the maid's hands. Elfwine took it almost instantly, sticking a corner of it in his mouth.

Nethiel did not say anything, but the heavy-lidded look of triumph on her face was enough to make Éomund's daughter hiss, "I swear, if I were not holding my brother's son I would be strangling you! What if he had had the chills?"

"Any old garment would have done," Nethiel said smugly.

Without warning, Gúthwyn grabbed the maid's wrist, twisting it as painfully as she was able to. Nethiel cried out, her eyes widening in panic.

"Next time I need something," Gúthwyn snarled, ignoring the fact that the woman's knees were buckling beneath her, "you will not hinder me! You have constantly gone out of your way to be rude and insufferable towards me—I am sick of it! Lothíriel is not the only person in Meduseld whom you serve, remember that!"

Nethiel could not speak; she was gasping for breath when Gúthwyn finally released her. Elfwine was whimpering, clutching his blanket in fear and gaping at his aunt. "Come, little one," she said soothingly to him, kissing his brow. "We have been needlessly delayed, but now we shall go outside."

As she swept away, she missed the filthy glare that Nethiel gave her, but she felt a strong sense of satisfaction that she had just given the maid something to think about before disobeying her in the future. _Maybe now she will stop treating me so poorly,_ she thought.

She continued calming Elfwine down while she passed through the hall, as he was still distressed at her encounter with Nethiel. Luckily, she had succeeded by the time she emerged outside; thereafter, he was distracted by the difference in temperature and the sight of the snow upon the ground. Gúthwyn tucked the blanket even tighter around him, feeling the biting chill and shivering.

"It is cold out here, is it not?" she inquired of Ceorl, who was on guard duty.

"My lady, it is warmer than it has been in weeks," Ceorl replied, a faint smile on his face. "I am mightily glad of the change."

Although Gúthwyn had to admit the truthfulness in his words, she still thought it was freezing. _Next time, instead of buying me a stuffy gown, Éomer should get me an overcoat,_ she mused, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. _It would certainly get more use!_

Elfwine babbled to her in his own language as she made her way down the stairs. She indulged him in this, sometimes repeating the sounds and causing him to talk even more animatedly. A sense of excitement wove its way into her with every syllable he uttered: soon, she felt, he would say his first word—maybe even this week. A few times, she had imagined that she was hearing him say "no" or "mama," but he had never explicitly stated something before and understood its meaning.

"My lady?"

Gúthwyn glanced up to see her champion approaching her. "Tun," she acknowledged, smiling.

He stopped before her and gave a small bow; then he inquired as to how Elfwine was doing.

"Excellent," Gúthwyn said, chuckling as her nephew waved at Tun and chattered nonsensically. "As you can tell, he is fast on his way to being able to carry on a conversation."

"That is good," Tun commented, nodding. "Ah… how are you?"

His voice was subdued, a painful reminder that he was still hurt by her rejection. Though it had been nearly two years, their friendship had not healed, something she blamed herself for. They had only sparred with each other a handful of times on the training ground, and these sessions were riddled with strained conversation and the keen knowledge that they were bound by new standards of propriety.

More than anything, Gúthwyn wished that she had not needed to turn him down. She reflected bitterly that, if her champion had asked her on any other day besides that of Borogor's death, she likely would have accepted his offer. While she did not believe that she would have been truly happy with him, the same fate would befall her with Elphir. No matter what man Éomer chose for her, she would never love them; and at least Tun had been her close companion for years. Why had she not agreed to marry him instead?

_He has a wonderful wife now,_ she reminded herself almost immediately afterward. _Furthermore, would you not rather lie to a prince who cannot even be troubled to write you anymore, or the man who would have sacrificed everything for you if you had asked it of him? He deserves a better spouse than you, and he received one. You should be glad that you did not bind him to a marriage with you!_

"My lady?"

Guiltily, Gúthwyn realized that she had been ignoring her champion. "I am so sorry," she apologized fervently, quickly glancing down to ensure that Elfwine was all right. He was resting placidly in her arms, idly watching Tun. "I was lost in my thoughts."

"I understand," Tun said quietly, swallowing. The expression in his eyes was difficult to read.

Gúthwyn felt a wave of sadness roll through her. This was not right. None of it was. She should have been laughing gaily with her champion, exchanging banter about their prowess with their blades and chuckling over Elfwine's antics. Instead, they were separated by a wife and her impending marriage to Elphir, both having to be on their best behavior and neither of them glad that it was so.

"Are you still angry with me?" she whispered, repressing a lump in her throat that threatened to grow larger.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, but something sparked within his eyes. Just as quickly, it faded away, replaced by the dull gaze that had settled in ever since his proposal to her.

"Are you still angry with me?" she repeated. "For… for what happened?"

For a moment, he merely looked at her. "I could never hold a grudge against you, my lady," he finally said, smiling softly. "You know that."

"I hope you do not feel as if… as if I have poorly rewarded your service," Gúthwyn murmured, struggling to keep herself composed. "That was never my intent."

"Being your champion has been my reward," Tun responded, his words lacing her with shame. "That is enough for me."

Gúthwyn was silent, trying to think of how best to phrase her gratitude towards him. It was too big to be expressed in a few words, but even if she wrote a book for him it would never justify what she had put him through.

Elfwine, however, saved her from her troubles. He had been observing Tun carefully, trying to detect suspicious characteristics. Evidently, the guard had passed his tests, and now he reached out to him, eager to play with his long hair.

"He does this to everyone," Gúthwyn explained sheepishly, kissing the top of her nephew's head.

Tun feigned disappointment. "I thought I was receiving special recognition."

Gúthwyn giggled at this, and for the briefest instant it was as if they were close friends again, the troubles of love weighing nothing on their minds. Then Tun seemed to remember himself and sighed. Nevertheless, he bent over and held out one of his locks for Elfwine's inspection.

"I am not sure if you should—" Gúthwyn began.

It was too late: Elfwine yanked as fiercely as he could. Caught off-guard, Tun stumbled, and his forehead crashed into Gúthwyn's. Muffled cries escaped them both, but Elfwine merely crowed with delight and tugged harder. The victim's fingers flew upwards, intent on loosening the child's hold, as did those of Éomund's daughter. Several seconds of awkward fumbling passed before they had separated themselves; when they did, both of their faces were bright red in embarrassment.

Neither of them noticed Brithwen, watching them from where she stood in the doorway of her house.

"I am so sorry, my lady," Tun breathed, his cheeks on the verge of turning scarlet. "Are you hurt?" He started reaching out to her, as if to feel her brow for any bruises that might have been forming, but almost instantly rescinded the gesture and lowered his hand.

"I-I am fine," Gúthwyn assured him, her head only aching a little. Elfwine was unharmed; she hoped that no one had seen their mishap and interpreted it wrongly. "Thank you. Really, I should be apologizing, I should have warned you sooner—"

"It was my fault," Tun quickly said. "Do not blame yourself for my mistake."

Gúthwyn flushed. Although she loved her nephew, she could not help but wish that he had chosen a more convenient person to ram her into—Cobryn, for example, or Éomer. _Well, maybe not Cobryn,_ she thought.

"I should be going," Tun muttered. "Are you sure I did not injure you?"

"Yes, I am," Gúthwyn confirmed. "Tun, I—"

Her gaze happened to flick over his shoulder then, and she tensed as she recognized Brithwen. The woman was looking directly at them, her features blurred at a distance, and Gúthwyn felt a wave of unease rolling through her stomach. She was already on unstable ground with Tun's wife—what if she had seen their proximity?

"Brithwen is waiting for you," was all she told her champion.

Startled, he turned around to see that she was, in fact, right. Nothing changed about his posture, but when he faced her once more she could not help but observe the resignation with which he looked at her. "I should be going," he repeated, and gave a low bow. "My lady," he said.

"Have a good day, Tun," Gúthwyn bade him, sighing quietly. As her champion turned away from her she waved at Brithwen, offering her a tentative smile. It was returned, but she was unable to tell whether the woman was upset with her for having such close contact with her husband.

_She did not forbid me from speaking to him,_ she reminded herself, glancing down at Elfwine as if hoping he could somehow reassure her. _In any case, it was an accident._

"You need to control your strength, little one," she said absent-mindedly, watching as Tun approached Brithwen and took her hand.

"Pa," Elfwine replied.

"Come again?" Gúthwyn asked, used to him babbling in his odd language.

"Pa," Elfwine said once more. His fingers threatened to entwine themselves in her hair; Gúthwyn winced a bit as he followed through. "Pa!"

"Yes, pa," Gúthwyn said, having not the slightest clue what he was talking about. "I know, I know."

"Pa!" Elfwine exclaimed persistently, looking cross that she did not understand. "Pa!"

"What about it?"

"Pa. Pa!"

Gúthwyn exhaled slowly, surveying the crowd for what he could be referring to. "What is it, Elfwine?"

"Pa!" Elfwine screeched, beating his fist against her shoulder.

"Calm yourself," Gúthwyn whispered, and turned towards Meduseld. Her mood brightened when she saw Éomer on the landing, shading his eyes from the afternoon sun and observing his people.

"Pa!"

Elfwine's cry was so loud that, this time, Éomer heard him and grinned, gesturing for his sister to bring him his child. Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat as her nephew strained for his father, reaching out with tiny fingers. "Pa!"

"Elfwine," she managed, unable to shake the sensation that if she so much as blinked, the moment would be ruined.

"Pa. Pa." He was trying to string the syllables together; Gúthwyn did not even dare to look at Éomer. _Say it,_ she urged the infant.

Irritated that he was not getting what he wanted, Elfwine ground out, "Pa! Pa! Pa… pa!" He was writhing in Gúthwyn's grasp. "Papa!"

It was the beginning of quite an impressive vocabulary. Joy swelled within her, so that she became giddy and was beaming ear to ear. "Say it again!" she encouraged him, nearly skipping as she hastened towards Éomer.

"Papa!" Elfwine obliged her, his manner growing more elated as they drew closer to his father.

"Éomer!" Gúthwyn called, nearly stumbling as she climbed the stairs two at a time.

"What is it?" her brother inquired, nonplussed as to what all the fuss was about.

"Elfwine, say it again," Gúthwyn urged eagerly. Éomer's eyes widened as he began to realize what was happening.

Elfwine laughed at the world, his small teeth showing, and declared proudly, "Papa!"

Never again did Éomund's daughter see such a look of happiness cross a man's face than when the king of Rohan heard himself addressed by his son. She handed the prince to him immediately, and stepped aside as Elfwine repeated his first word over and over, until it had imprinted itself upon their memories, never to fade away.

Gúthwyn slipped away as Éomer whirled his son around in the air, and for once she was not missed.

* * *

_My son,_ Éomer thought happily, watching as Elfwine conducted valiant battles from his perch on the floor. With a vicious swoop of his arm, the baby eliminated an entire army of men, including several horses that had the misfortune of being in his path. At the scene, Éomer grinned, knowing instinctively that Elfwine had inherited his love of battle. Ever since he had carved a small battalion of forces, his son had been playing nonstop with them, delighting in ordering his troops about.

"Gone!" Elfwine cackled gleefully, and then set about methodically arranging them once more.

In the few months after he had said his first word, he now had gathered a collection of them, including mama, horse, and Gú-in. Éomer smiled fondly as he recalled how his sister had glowed for nearly a week afterwards.

"Papa!" Elfwine demanded then, crawling forward a few feet and pushing at his legs.

"Yes?"

In response, Elfwine pointed at the horses, most of which still needed to be picked up. "Horse," he said.

Éomer reached over and took one in his hand, then made clopping noises with his teeth as he moved it towards Elfwine. He was rewarded with a burst of laughter from his son, who wriggled in delight as the horse tickled him. When he at last succeeded in mustering a defense, namely two lone soldiers, he wasted no time in throwing them at his assailant.

"I have been defeated!" Éomer moaned as one of the projectiles hit him in the shoulder. He clutched his "wound" in false agony, then keeled over onto his back.

Almost immediately, Elfwine scrambled on top of him, reveling in his triumph. Unnoticed, Éomer put a protective hand behind him, ensuring that he would not slip suddenly and fall onto the floor. His body had become a battleground, over which Elfwine was swiftly establishing his dominance.

But before long, the mighty warrior became distracted by something at the door. He clapped his hands together in pleasure as Éomer craned his neck to see what it was. _I hope it is not one of the soldiers,_ he thought, nearly groaning as he imagined what Elfhelm would say if he saw his king rolling on the floor with his child.

Elfwine put his fears to rest by calling cheerfully, "Gú-in!"

"Hello, little one," he heard his sister respond. Éomer found himself suddenly able to sit up: ecstatic at the sight of his aunt, Elfwine had abruptly crawled off of his father and begun scrambling towards her.

"Welcome, sister," Éomer said, watching as she bent down to pick up Elfwine.

"You seem to have lost quite the battle," was Gúthwyn's answer, her eyebrow raised as she surveyed the carnage. Elfwine cooed proudly at her observation.

"I was feeling generous," Éomer said breezily, although he suspected that his cheeks were somewhat red at having been caught in such a position. "Would you like to sit down?"

Gúthwyn hesitated for a moment, but when Elfwine all but nestled himself in her hair she sighed and lowered herself to the ground. As Éomer watched her, he grew aware that something was troubling her. Despite the fact that she obliged Elfwine when he retrieved a toy soldier and offered it to her, her motions were half-hearted and her smile did not enter her eyes.

"What is wrong?" Éomer asked her quietly, reaching over and placing a horse upright. Elfwine frowned at this intrusion and knocked it over again.

Gúthwyn's expression suddenly became mask-like, but Éomer had seen enough to know that she was not all right, as she most certainly would claim that she was.

As if on cue, she said, "I am fine. Elfwine, can you find me the bravest knight in all the land?"

"No!" Elfwine replied, but still lunged out of her lap to search for one.

"You are not fine," Éomer muttered, noting the way she was twisting her hands. His eyes widened as he realized that he could see nearly all the bones in them. A wave of revulsion swept through him as he demanded, "When was the last time you ate?"

His inquiry startled both Gúthwyn and Elfwine, neither of whom had anticipated his change of tone. The latter's bottom lip quivered dangerously, but Gúthwyn hastily averted a crisis by tickling his bare feet. Soon the air was filled with laughter.

Éomer had not intended to upset his son, and felt guilty about doing so, yet he was not going to let his sister evade the question. "Well?" he prompted her when she appeared to have absorbed herself in Elfwine's activities.

"Today," Gúthwyn said, her gaze fixed determinedly on one of the wooden men. "Why?"

"You look more dead than alive," he retorted bluntly, hoping his words would knock some sense into her.

They did not. Instead, Gúthwyn flushed angrily and ground out, "Thank you, brother. And I suppose you were going to say next that Elphir will not approve?"

He had, as a matter of fact, been about to bring her future husband into the argument, but something in her voice stopped him and made him regret having criticized her so harshly. "No," he conceded more gently, and exhaled as he added, "I am sorry. I should not have spoken to you so severely."

"You are excused," Gúthwyn said dully. He thought he saw a brief glitter in her eyes, but when she swallowed it disappeared. The look of preoccupation replaced her irritation with him, and she seemed to have retreated into a world away from what he and Elfwine were doing.

"Pa," Elfwine said then, coming over and depositing an armful of men in his lap. "Pay!"

"I am, son," Éomer promised, though he had obviously not been managing the army according to the infant's standards.

"Gú-in," Elfwine entreated then, once satisfied that his father knew his duty. "Gú-in!"

He cast about for a toy to give her, but he had left them all with Éomer. It made little difference: Gúthwyn's face was pale, and she did not hear a word that her nephew was saying.

"Sister," Éomer at length said, placing a gentle hand on her arm. Gúthwyn jumped, but once she saw that it was him she calmed herself.

"Yes?" she queried.

"Please, what is bothering you?" Éomer pressed her. "I do not wish to see either of my siblings unhappy."

She did not speak for a full minute, and he was about to abandon all hope of an explanation when she asked softly, "What will Elphir say when he sees me?"

Her voice was barely audible, and he thought that he had misheard her. After all, her words made no sense. Elphir had already seen her several times, and there was nothing for him to be surprised at.

"What do you mean?" he finally asked, knitting his brow.

Oblivious to their interaction, Elfwine took a corner of Gúthwyn's right sleeve in his mouth and began contentedly sucking on it. Éomer made to reprimand him, but his sister shook her head. She did not meet his eyes, and her face was red with mortification as she elucidated, "On… On our wedding night."

That.

"Ah," Éomer said uncomfortably. The thought of Gúthwyn's scars—and the fact that she was no longer a virgin—being exposed to the prince was something that had crossed his mind several times, but whenever it did he had tried to repress it. He did not like picturing his sister cringing beneath his friend's son, nor imagining what the man might think when he saw the scars covering her body like a layer of grime. That was to say nothing of the hideous Eye of Sauron.

"Is he going to be angry with me?" Gúthwyn wanted to know, all but cowering in shame.

"No, of course not," Éomer hastened to console her. He prayed that Elphir, who had been raised extremely well and knew how to delicately navigate any situation, would extend the same decorum to his wife. "Are you… are you going to tell him?"

Gúthwyn shrugged miserably, glancing down at Elfwine. The child was still enchanted by her sleeve, although he had taken it out of his mouth and was now simply playing with it. "I do not know," she whispered, shivering in spite of the warmth within the throne room. "What if he cannot stand to look at me?"

"Elphir would never treat you like that," Éomer said firmly. "He will believe you."

"That does not change that I am not a maiden," Gúthwyn pointed out. "Will that not displease him?"

Éomer tried to place himself in the prince's shoes. If he had taken Lothíriel to bed on their wedding night and discovered that he was not the first to do so, he would have certainly received an unpleasant shock. And as much as he wanted to tell Gúthwyn otherwise, he most likely would have accused her of being unfaithful, and refused to listen to her side of the story for weeks.

Yet, if the Valar decided to recompense his sister for her terrible past, then perhaps Elphir would be more willing to hear Gúthwyn out. "If you inform him about… what was done to you, then he has no reason to be angry," Éomer said. "You are innocent, and if he has any doubts he has only to express them to me."

Gúthwyn still looked worried, her face lined with distress. In an effort to bring her around, Éomer finished, "In any case, your scars will not turn him away from you. He was not attracted to you merely because of your beauty—you have a wonderful personality, sister."

He might have succeeded. He might have convinced her that she had nothing to fret over, and that everything would be fine when she arrived in Dol Amroth. But at that moment, Elfwine tugged at her sleeve, and the fabric slipped to the side to reveal the brand upon her wrist. The infant made no sound as he stared at it apprehensively, looking as if he had been stunned. Something had finally marred his beloved aunt.

Éomer found that he, too, was paralyzed. Time had frozen, trapping the three inside the great hall in its icy veins. As Elfwine gaped at the Eye of Sauron, Éomund's children watched him, waiting to be broken out of the spell. Gúthwyn's body was so stiff that she could not have done better dead; she was not breathing, as evidenced by her cheeks becoming even paler.

And then Elfwine screwed up his face and wailed, his screams reverberating off the walls and ringing shrilly in their ears. He pressed his hands over his eyes, blocking the sight of Gúthwyn's wrist and curling in on himself. Éomer had never seen him so terrified before. The sight of him trying to crawl away from his aunt, unable to because he was yelling so hard, sickened the king of Rohan.

When he dared to look at Gúthwyn, he thought his baby sister was about to cry. Her face contorted, and for several seconds she did not seem capable of movement.

"Son," Éomer said soothingly, taking him in his arms and rubbing his back. As much as he wanted to apologize to Gúthwyn, comforting the child was a higher priority.

Elfwine bawled even harder at the sound of his name, and beat his tiny fists against his father's chest. Éomer's nerves were on the verge of frazzled: Gúthwyn, cringing at the noise, looked as if she was about to flee in humiliation, and he wanted her to stay so that he might make amends for what Elfwine had done. Yet he could not while his son was crying, and the Valar knew when he would stop.

"It is all right," Éomer murmured. "You are safe, son. There is nothing that can harm you."

For all the good that did, he might as well have been talking to a wall. To further complicate things, Lothíriel emerged into the throne room, all but running towards them.

"What happened?" she demanded anxiously, hardly noticing Gúthwyn as she knelt down beside them. "Is he hurt?"

"Mama!" Elfwine howled, trying to fling himself into her arms. Éomer relinquished him, saying:

"He saw something."

Lothíriel cradled Elfwine to her chest and gently kissed him. "He saw what?" she asked over their son's whimpering. "Elfwine, what did you see?"

Gúthwyn tensed, reminding Éomer of the deer before it springs.

"Gú-in!" Elfwine shrieked, and buried his face in Lothíriel's neck.

Éomer felt the situation slipping out of his control as his wife's head swiveled towards Gúthwyn, who seemed as if she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. "What did you do?" Lothíriel interrogated the other woman, her gaze narrowed in suspicion.

"Lothíriel, wait," Éomer said quickly, his head swimming as he tried to figure out how to salvage the incident. "He saw Gúthwyn's wrist. It—"

"I should go," Gúthwyn interrupted, mortified. Her eyes glistened as she got to her feet, and she stumbled before gaining her balance.

"Wait!" Éomer said again, desperate to remedy her anguish. He stood up, as did Lothíriel, but when he opened his mouth he could not find the right words. Elfwine's sobs were ringing in his ears, making it impossible to think.

"Éomer, really," Gúthwyn choked out. "I have done enough damage. Please…"

She gave a hurried curtsy and darted away, no doubt heading for the safety of her chambers. Éomer swore loudly, earning a reprimanding look from Lothíriel.

"He is not even a year old!" she hissed, though she was more exasperated than angry.

"I am sorry," Éomer said wearily. "I—"

At that moment the doors opened, and Cobryn walked inside. Hammel accompanied him, a foul glare on his face. A wave of relief washed over Éomer.

"Cobryn," he called out as the advisor drew closer.

Cobryn bowed, prompting Hammel to do the same. "My lord," he acknowledged, raising his voice over Elfwine's tears.

"Can you find Gúthwyn?" Éomer asked, harried.

"What is wrong?" Cobryn inquired immediately, momentarily glancing at the passage that led to his friend's room.

"Elfwine saw her wrist," Éomer explained, now beginning to get a headache from his son's crying, "and I had just finished telling her that Elphir would not think less of her for it—"

Cobryn nodded swiftly. "I understand," he said, and without another word left them. Hammel followed in his wake, his small frame still taut in anger.

Éomer did not even pause to wonder what had irritated the boy. He turned his attentions back to his own son, who was being rocked back and forth by Lothíriel.

"Gúthwyn is gone now," his wife murmured, rubbing his back consolingly. "You have nothing to worry about. She is gone."

"It was not her," Éomer pointed out, wanting to defend his sister. "It was that brand."

A shudder passed over Lothíriel, but she changed her words. "You are safe, Elfwine," she said. "Nothing can hurt you."

Éomer hovered in the background, wondering whether he should help her try to comfort the baby or if it would only confuse him. Yet Lothíriel was able to calm him down in a few minutes, although he could not look at their eyes without his own growing watery, and Éomund's son decided it would be best to assuage his sister's chagrin.

"I am going to talk to Gúthwyn," he informed Lothíriel. She met his gaze—by the Valar, her eyes were beautiful—and nodded.

"As you wish," was her response.

Éomer inclined his head and departed from the throne room, his footsteps echoing along the hallway as he drew closer to Gúthwyn's chambers. He could hear the low, muffled voice of Cobryn, punctuated by a few halting answers from his sister. His conscience twisted as he heard her breath hitch and the subdued tone with which she spoke.

Lifting his hand, he knocked on the door. Within a few seconds, Gúthwyn called, "Who is it?" Her voice wavered slightly.

"It is I, Éomer," he informed her, and when she bade him come in he pushed open the door and stepped inside. Gúthwyn was sitting at her desk, her head bowed in embarrassment and unhappiness. Cobryn was beside her. He had stopped talking when Éomer entered, and now rose to his feet.

"My lord," he said. Then he bent down and whispered something in Gúthwyn's ear. She nodded, and he departed. As he was passing Éomer, their eyes met. His expression was grim.

"Sister," Éomer began as the advisor left the room. "I am so sorry. Elfwine has never seen it before—"

"When it frightens someone who does not know its meaning, then what will someone who has fought against soldiers bearing its mark think?" she interrupted him, her face distraught.

"_I_ do not think any less of you," Éomer said, crossing the room and placing a firm hand on her shoulder. It was so small beneath his palm that he felt like he could dislocate it if he made the tiniest effort to.

"You are my brother," Gúthwyn replied woodenly. "Elphir does not know where I was before we met each other."

"Then it is your duty to tell him," Éomer told her simply.

He must not have given the right answer, for Gúthwyn's shoulders slumped. "I suppose it is," she muttered. "Just like it is my duty to marry him."

"Gúthwyn—"

"Éomer, please." Once again, her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears, which she tried to conceal by staring intently at her desk. Éomer found himself wondering whether it was Elfwine's rejection of her that hurt more than the prospect of Elphir turning her away. He knew that Gúthwyn loved her nephew, and spent most of her time with him; her face always lit up whenever he so much as looked at her.

"I am sorry—" he tried to say, but she shook her head frantically.

"Please, leave me alone," she whispered. "I need some time to myself."

Éomer had no choice but to respect her wishes. He retreated from the room, his boots treading upon the ground with the weight of his heavy heart. Now a seed of doubt had been planted inside him: what _would_ Elphir say when he first looked upon his bride? He did not think Gúthwyn's scars were terrible from the front, but if the prince so much as ran his fingers along her back he would feel all of what Haldor had inflicted upon her.

Again, the king of Rohan tried to imagine what it would be like if his own wife had gone through the same torture. All of a sudden, he fervently hoped that Gúthwyn would tell her husband before they were about to consummate the marriage. If he had touched Lothíriel, only to discover that her back was covered in gruesome welts in the shape of a child with an arrow through its head, he would have been so repulsed that it would have been next to impossible to follow through with their wedding night.

He sighed and shook his head. _Sister,_ he prayed, _please do what is right for both of you. You deserve a happy life._

Nearly a week passed before Elfwine was able to see Gúthwyn without bursting into tears. During that time, she became even thinner, and never appeared happy for more than a few strained seconds. Éomer grew increasingly worried for her, wondering if he should write to Éowyn for advice. Circles were forming under their baby sister's eyes, dark ones, giving her a haunted look that chilled him to the bone.

It was not until Elfwine surveyed her suspiciously one day, and at last handed her a wooden horse, that Gúthwyn finally gave a genuine smile.


	69. Theft

**A/N:** If this is the last time I updated before the 25th, Merry Christmas! (Also, Happy Hanukah/Ramadon/Kwanzaa to those who celebrate it!)**

* * *

**

The Rohan Pride Trilogy

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Sixty-Nine:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Sixty-Nine**

"All right, everyone, again!" Cobryn ordered, and watched as a succession of thirteen- and fourteen-year-old boys raised their wooden swords. The sparring matches commenced, accompanied by grunting, shouting, and laughter. His eyes surveyed them critically, looking for any mistakes in either their stances, guards, offense, or defense.

When he came to Hammel, he repressed a sigh. Whether or not Wulfríd purposely sought the boy out, the two of them always seemed to be partners. Wulfríd's skill was unparalleled amongst the children, while Hammel's wiry frame placed him at an immediate disadvantage. At the moment, Hammel was being rapidly pushed back, his motions sloppy and erratic.

"Hold your ground, Hammel!" he called out.

"Hold your ground, Hammel!" Wulfríd mocked, attacking the boy even harder.

Cobryn gritted his teeth together, knowing exactly where this was going. Hammel, his face expressionless, even almost bored, did nothing to stop Wulfríd from striking him across the chest. He stumbled, giving Wulfríd the opportunity to lunge forward and jab him so fiercely in his stomach that he doubled over. Within seconds, Wulfríd had disarmed him.

"I suppose you were not listening," he taunted the coughing boy.

Cobryn shook his head and glanced at another pair. This was a battle Hammel had to fight on his own, both literally and figuratively. As much as he wanted to intercede on behalf of the child, it would accomplish nothing.

"Eadbald, keep your guard up," he said sharply to one of the other boys, who had a habit of concentrating solely on his assaults and giving little thought to preventing himself from being stabbed. Having been reprimanded for this several times, Eadbald ducked his head meekly, and then shouted in frustration when his opponent hit him with a wooden sword.

Sighing a little, Cobryn began moving through the ranks of dueling boys. With the exception of Eadbald and Hammel, most of them would be perfectly capable of fighting in the army when they grew older. Many could even attain the position of being a guard, which he knew would be a great honor for them and their families. _That shall be Éomer's decision,_ he thought to himself. _Yet the next generation… Elfwine will be inspecting them._

"I need a challenge," Wulfríd complained loudly, drawing the attention of everyone present. "Hammel is too slow and weak."

The boys sniggered at this. Hammel's lack of proficiency was notorious amongst them; they had all criticized him for it at one point or another.

"We shall be rotating in a few minutes," Cobryn informed him, his tone making it clear that Wulfríd was not to grumble any further. His point was taken: Wulfríd rolled his eyes, but turned to face Hammel again.

"Come, bookworm," he sneered. "Make me actually try."

Hammel barely seemed to hear him, and when he picked up his sword he gave it a careless swing. The action came naturally, almost without thought, and Cobryn felt a brief sense of frustration. Hammel clearly had _some_ talent, but he was obviously choosing to put next to no effort in his training. If he had not known that the boy had various peculiar habits, he might have been offended.

The rest of the practice continued without further incident, except for when Wulfríd knocked Hammel off of his feet and insulted his fighting abilities in front of the entire group. Hammel did nothing to defend himself, and appeared oblivious to the jeering of his classmates. Cobryn stepped in so much as to order Wulfríd to give him a hand up, but other than that he knew it was best not to intervene.

When he at last dismissed the children, shouting filled the air as they met with their friends and bragged about their victories. They surged forward in a large mass out of the training grounds, quickly dispersing as they went to their homes for lunch. Only Hammel and Wulfríd lingered, the reason for the latter's slowness becoming evident within a few moments.

Aldeth appeared in a short amount of time, a smile stretched across her face as she greeted Wulfríd. Under the pretense of sheathing a sword one of the boys had forgotten to bring home, Cobryn glanced at her, noting that her happiness did not seem terribly genuine. Yet the two children must have had an arrangement of some sorts, for they seemed intent on leaving together. Wulfríd, he observed, was already boasting about his exploits on the field.

Before they departed, Aldeth interrupted Wulfríd's tale and bid hello to Hammel, although the boy merely grunted in response and did not have much to say to her. Aldeth's brow was knitted in confusion as she walked away with Wulfríd, but Hammel did not look at her again. Instead, he kicked viciously at his sword once they had disappeared around the corner, sending it flying towards Cobryn.

Cobryn stopped it with his feet and raised an eyebrow. "If you wish for her attention, ignoring her is not the wisest course of action."

Hammel was stonily silent.

"On another note," Cobryn continued, holding out his sword to him, "you need to start putting more effort into my classes."

"It matters not," Hammel muttered, reluctantly accepting the weapon. "_Wulfríd _will always be better."

"Maybe if you stopped putting yourself down, you might actually accomplish something," Cobryn said, though not unkindly. As much as he was irritated with the boy's attitude, he pitied him, and desired to ease his troubles.

"And maybe I could become the king of Rohan, too," Hammel retorted, his voice so low that Cobryn just barely caught it.

He was about to respond when he caught sight of Gúthwyn approaching them, a bright smile on her face. "Good afternoon," she said to them cheerfully.

Thoroughly appreciating the rare instance on which she was happy, Cobryn grinned as he returned the greeting. "Are you going riding?" he inquired, recognizing the gown she was wearing.

"Yes, I am," she answered, and turned to Hammel. "How was your lesson?"

"Fine," Hammel replied, and offered no further comment.

"That is good," Gúthwyn said, ruffling his hair. He winced, stepping away from her.

"I am hungry," he announced, ignoring the warning look Cobryn sent him. "Enjoy your ride."

"Would you like to come with me?" Gúthwyn offered. "I can wait until you have had lunch."

"No, thank you," Hammel said, already retreating into the street. "I would not want to delay you."

Gúthwyn seemed faintly hurt for a second, but visibly let it go and asked Cobryn, "Would you like to join me? I would love company."

Cobryn quickly reviewed his schedule for the afternoon. Apart from a meeting with the council, which would be far later in the day, he had nothing. "That sounds excellent," he agreed. "I shall have to keep you waiting, for I need to get better boots."

Gúthwyn shrugged. "That is all right. I think I will get a heavier cloak. It is chilly out here."

Arching an eyebrow, Cobryn pointed out, "It is the middle of May. We have not seen frost for two months."

"But it is still cold," Gúthwyn said defensively.

Cobryn shook his head in amusement, but as they began walking towards the Golden Hall he surreptitiously looked at her figure. She was still too thin—it was for that reason that she so often suffered from the temperature. He had the sneaking suspicion that she had all but stopped eating after she had agreed to marry Elphir. Sooner or later, that would have to change, even if he was the one who changed it for her.

"So, how _are_ Hammel's lessons coming?" Gúthwyn asked as they drew closer to Meduseld.

"Not very well," he said bluntly. "He has yet to try to win a sparring match."

"Cobryn, I am sorry," Gúthwyn spoke immediately. "I am sure it has nothing to do with you—"

"It does not," Cobryn said swiftly. "You do not need to apologize; it is his own doing. He is still jealous of Wulfríd."

A spark of anger entered Gúthwyn's gaze. "Wulfríd has no right to treat him so horribly. I have half a mind to speak to his mother."

"He must solve this on his own," Cobryn cautioned her. "I doubt he would appreciate you getting involved on his behalf."

Gúthwyn sighed, twisting her bony fingers. "He never tells me what he wants," she remarked wistfully. "I mean, he has always been like that, but lately it seems as if he has nothing to say to me."

"He is reserved by nature," Cobryn allowed, glancing around the street to ensure that the boy was nowhere in sight, "but he has been pulling away from everyone recently. It is not only you."

"Why?" Gúthwyn asked as they began ascending the stairs to the Golden Hall. Her face was bewildered as she added, "Is it because of Aldeth?"

"I think that is but a part of it," Cobryn replied. As much as he admired how his friend had succeeded in raising two children not her own, he could not help but notice that she was oftentimes incapable of discerning Hammel's feelings—nor was she generally a shrewd observer. She was like Éomer in that regard, for out of the three siblings Éowyn was clearly the best at perceiving the emotions of others.

However, none of this was displayed in his tone, which he kept level as he continued, "He speaks little of it to me, but I believe he was more affected by the Black Land than we assume."

A shadow fell over Gúthwyn at the mention of Mordor, yet she shook her head, ridding herself of it instantly. As the guards opened the doors for them, she repeated the action. "Hammel is fine," she insisted, and then bit her lip. "Well," she mused, "he does not make friends easily, but can that be expected of him? Haiweth was the only person his age for three years, and while she can get along with almost anyone, he has always been quieter."

"And out of the two of them, you would think Haiweth the worse off for what she went through?" he hedged, stopping at his sleeping pallet to retrieve his riding boots. They were rather old, as he had purchased a used pair for both the lesser expense and the convenience of not having to wear them in.

"No," Gúthwyn answered, after a moment's pause. "She has not had a nightmare in months. Both of them may remember various things, but Haiweth at the least I kept from seeing anything that…" Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed before finishing, "that might have disturbed her."

"_I will protect you," he promised Chalibeth, handing the new slave some rags and a bucket of water. "You do not need to worry about your safety."_

Cobryn mentally shook his head. He was no expert on Haiweth's mood, but he knew Gúthwyn's position was bordering on foolish. "How can you be sure of that?" he questioned, slipping his last boot on.

"What are you saying?" Gúthwyn demanded, her voice rising sharply. When he glanced at her, her face was drained of its color and her eyes were wide in panic. Cobryn did not know what it was about his words that had set her off; nevertheless, he apologized as swiftly as he might.

"I was not implying anything. I should not have spoken."

"No." Gúthwyn sighed, the sound like the steam rising from the forges during a night in Isengard. "I am sorry. I did not mean to snap at you." She made a conscious effort to smile, and then said brightly, "Are you ready?"

Cobryn nodded, and the two of them began walking towards Gúthwyn's chambers. They had not gone far into the hall before a flock of chattering maids passed them, their hands full of laundry and their mouths spilling the latest gossip. None of it was about him and his friend; evidently speculation about the possibility of them having an affair was now old news.

Gúthwyn exchanged greetings with a few of the servants, though the rest had long ago proven themselves loyal to Lothíriel and feigned an ignorance to her presence. Nethiel was one of the handful who acknowledged her. A gleam was in her eyes, though Gúthwyn did not see it. Cobryn resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the maid's insolence—wondering if, in part, it was due to the fact that he was escorting Gúthwyn—and followed his friend into her room.

"Where are we riding to?" he inquired as Éomund's daughter opened her wardrobe, rummaging around for a cloak.

A faint, almost guilty grin tugged at her face. "I was hoping we might go out further into the plains," she answered, her cheeks coloring as she withdrew the fur-lined garment.

"Ah." Cobryn made a show of pretending to be insulted. "So that is why you invited me: not because you enjoy my company, but because you wanted to go out of sight from the city."

"That is not true!" Gúthwyn immediately exclaimed, and smirked. "Besides, I could have easily applied to Elfhelm or Gamling for a guard. If what Éomer says is not a lie, they would not have been able to refuse me."

Cobryn laughed at this, recalling some of the tales the king had told him about Gúthwyn. "That could very well be the case," he agreed.

Gúthwyn was about to respond when she glanced at her drawers. For a reason unbeknownst to Cobryn, she stiffened.

"What is it?" he asked, and then narrowed his eyes in puzzlement as she dropped to her knees. She yanked the bottom drawer open so forcefully that it nearly fell out into her lap. Frantically, she searched through a couple of cloaks, one of which seemed familiar but disappeared from his sight too quickly for him to determine where he had seen it before. When she looked up, her face was ashen.

"My book," she whispered, and leaped to her feet, heading towards her nightstand.

He had seen her with the volume countless times. It was small and black, yet had the inexplicable power to make his once-proud friend's eyes glimmer with tears. He had refrained from asking her about it, but he had a hunch that it involved the man she had loved. It was one of the few parts about her time in Mordor that he had never pieced together, and most likely never would.

And now it was missing. Having completed the near-destruction of her nightstand, Gúthwyn stood up and announced hoarsely, "I cannot find it anywhere."

"When was the last time you saw it?" Cobryn questioned, getting down and checking beneath the bed. As usual, only various linens and out-of-season clothes were stored there. Almost no space had been left for a book, even of such a miniscule size, to squeeze in amongst the items.

"Just before I left!" Gúthwyn cried, going back to the bottom drawer and examining it again. She proceeded to look through the rest of them; nothing turned up. "I had it on top of my drawers, and now it is not there!"

"Did you bring it out of your room without realizing it?" Cobryn asked, something nagging at the corner of his mind. He checked her trunk, but there were only a few of her fancier gowns, upon which was resting Framwine in his sheathe.

"No," Gúthwyn answered instantly, going through her drawers for a third time. "I never take it out, it has been in here for months…"

Her voice faded into the background as Cobryn suddenly, perfectly, remembered Nethiel.

"I will look in the hall," he said abruptly, rising to his feet. Gúthwyn, interrupted from her worried babbling, seemed confused.

"I am positive I have not taken it out with me," she replied, but already he was leaving the room. He could only think of one reason why Nethiel would have any interest in Gúthwyn's book: Lothíriel.

Narrowing his eyes, Cobryn stepped out into the great hall and surveyed it for any sign of the maid. He did not know why Lothíriel would want the object, but he was aware of the fact that Nethiel never did anything unless it was at the queen's bidding. Part of him cautioned against jumping to conclusions—logically, Gúthwyn might have taken the book out of her chambers and forgotten it—yet he knew his friend had a strong attachment to the item and would not have treated it so carelessly.

His suspicions seemed to be confirmed when Nethiel stepped out of the hall leading to Lothíriel's room, her cheeks faintly pink and her fingers still clutching the laundry basket. As he ducked down, pretending to lace up his boots and take no notice of her, he recalled that when he had last seen her, one of her hands had been concealed beneath a large blanket.

Cobryn straightened almost as soon as Nethiel left the hall. His dislike for the queen was bordering on hatred. Between the sheet incident and her prejudice that slaves were uneducated and barbarous, not to mention the foolish rumors she had spread about Gúthwyn, there were not many people alive against whom he would rather seek vengeance. His position as Éomer's advisor meant that he could not do much to express his displeasure with her, but he had gained some leverage once the intention to keep everything from the king's knowledge was made clear.

Éomer, he knew, was now hunting with some of the other Riders, and would not return until sunset. Lothíriel had gone to wash her clothes—she must have done so in order for all suspicion of her involvement with Gúthwyn's book to be unjustifiable. The only times the queen deigned to socialize with her lesser subjects were when she was hoping to glean some gossip, or when they were so short-staffed that there was no one to do it for her.

His mind made up, he checked to ensure that no one else was in the throne room, and then crossed to the other side and entered the passage. The door to the king and queen's chambers was slightly ajar; he slipped through it and glanced around, wondering where Nethiel might have put her find.

_What does Lothíriel hope to achieve by taking Gúthwyn's book?_ he asked himself. _Does she know of its connection to the man she loved?_

That was certainly possible, even likely. Lothíriel had an uncanny way of discovering information, similar to Hammel. And with Gúthwyn's marriage to Elphir drawing closer, Cobryn was rather surprised—even wary—that the woman had not done anything to intervene, nor alerted her brother to Gúthwyn's supposed promiscuity. _She must be lacking solid proof,_ Cobryn thought, _and is hoping to find it in the book._

What he would not give to tell the queen exactly why the idea of his friend being a whore was so revolting… And yet, he would never breathe a word of Gúthwyn's past to anyone. It was her secret, something that she had confided in him because she trusted him. If it was heard by the wrong person, it would spread all over Edoras within hours, and he knew Gúthwyn would never want to show her face to her people again.

_Focus,_ he reprimanded himself. _Lothíriel might return at any moment._ There was only so long one could pretend to wash their garments.

He began a swift probe of the room, eliminating Éomer's wardrobe on the grounds that Nethiel would have left her catch with Lothíriel's things. There was nothing hidden in the folds of the queen's gowns—he was careful to leave them exactly as he had found them—and a quick look through her nightstand yielded similar results.

Not to be daunted, yet at the same time knowing that he would probably be kicked out of Meduseld if he was discovered snooping in the king's private chambers, he ran his hand underneath their mattress. There was nothing along the edges; nor, when he lifted it up, could he see anything resembling Gúthwyn's book. Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he scanned the room once more.

And then it hit him: a location so obvious, so foolish, that he had unconsciously dismissed it as a place worth searching. Crouching down on the floor, he craned his neck and peered beneath the bed. Right in front of him was a small, black book.

"I should have known," Cobryn muttered to himself, retrieving it and standing up. When was the last time anyone had accused Nethiel of containing an ounce's worth of intelligence?

"What do you think you are doing?" a harsh voice demanded.

Cobryn briefly closed his eyes as he recognized the speaker to be Lothíriel. Thanking the Valar that Éomer was still on his hunt, he turned around to face her, clutching Gúthwyn's book. It was his ticket out of the room—and the only thing that would keep the queen from complaining to her husband.

"I was looking for this," he explained, meeting Lothíriel's stormy grey eyes with a cool gaze. "It seems to have hidden itself underneath your bed."

Lothíriel glanced at it, but her shock was only visible for half a second. Had he not been expecting it, he never would have noticed it.

"What is that thing?" she inquired, arching an eyebrow.

Cobryn snorted. "I might be insulted," he said, "that you deem me foolish enough to fall for that. However, you have made it quite clear that you do not think highly of me, though I have done little to merit that sentiment."

Lothíriel narrowed her eyes. "How dare you come into this room without asking permission?" she hissed.

"How dare you confiscate Gúthwyn's things?" Cobryn countered, his tone laced with hatred.

A faint pink tinged Lothíriel's cheeks, but she said coldly, "I do not know what you are raving about. Leave now, or I shall let Éomer know that I caught you sneaking around our chambers!"

"Then I shall inform him of what I found while I was _sneaking,_" Cobryn replied levelly, his voice inviting her to make a decision.

Lothíriel's eyes glittered triumphantly. "You are a slave," she said dismissively. "Ah, an _advisor,_ rather. My apologies. Regardless, your word is worth nothing compared to mine. Do not come in here again."

A powerful urge to take the queen's neck and break it into a thousand fragments swirled through her, but he refused to let it consume him. Detachedly, he responded, "You have already tried to get rid of me once, and failed. As before, he will believe Gúthwyn."

He had said the magic word. If glares had held the power to kill, he would have been struck to the ground instantaneously. Yet Lothíriel's had no such effect on him, and he simply looked at her as she asked bitingly, "Why are you always the one fighting her battles? Are they too much of an inconvenience for her?"

Cobryn took a step closer. "She has enough problems," he snarled, "without you adding to them. Next time you want something of hers, ask before you have that maid steal it. Were you hoping to find accounts of any affairs you might condemn her for? There are easier ways to obtain that information: ask any of the men whom she associates herself with, and they will be shocked to even hear your allegations. As impossible as it may seem, _your highness,_ your husband's sister is innocent of all your accusations."

"I would expect as much from you," Lothíriel said scathingly. "No doubt the two of you are meeting each other behind my brother's back—and it matters little, because she has nothing left to ruin—but I will not let Elphir be humiliated for your disgusting behavior!"

Had Lothíriel occupied any position lower than that of Éomer's wife, he would have struck her. How she had learned that Gúthwyn was not a virgin anymore was a mystery to him, but he did not have the time to think about the answer. "I have no interest in taking Gúthwyn as my lover," he growled, actually repulsed at the idea. "Rest assured that if we had such feelings toward each other, we would have married long ago, and spared ourselves your gossip!"

"She is not as harmless as you seem to believe," Lothíriel said, her eyes as thin as slits. "For she confessed to me that it was not you who took her first—I daresay you might have been the second or the hundredth to mark your territory on her!"

"You are despicable!" Cobryn spat, his ears ringing. "You know nothing about the circumstances concerning that event, and you are ignorant to pretend you do!"

"So you do not deny it," Lothíriel said smugly.

"No," Cobryn answered, and would have burned holes into her with his eyes if he could. "I do not. Yet you already knew that. Let me warn you that if you ever so much as whisper this in Éomer's presence—"

"He will be mildly ashamed," Lothíriel filled in smoothly. "For who likes to imagine sweet, _baby_ Gúthwyn being impure? But, alas, though he has neglected to tell me this, it is likely because he is too embarrassed to admit it. I cannot blame him." An odd expression passed over her face as she said this; it was almost like jealousy, but in the next instant it was gone.

"You have no idea how wrong you are," Cobryn breathed, his voice deadly quiet. "Now, let us get something straight: this will remain between us, and you shall not lay a finger—nor have anyone under your orders do so—on any of Gúthwyn's belongings. If I hear that _anything_ of hers has gone missing, I will know who is responsible, and I shall not hesitate to go to Éomer. Do you understand?"

"You are hardly one to give me orders," Lothíriel said dryly. "Are you not better at following them?"

"These are the manner of petty insults with which you taunt Gúthwyn in front of the maids?" Cobryn inquired, raising an eyebrow. "I confess myself disappointed. Do we have an accord, or not?"

She glared defiantly at him, putting all of her regality and haughtiness into the gesture, but after serving under Saruman her status did nothing to make him even somewhat uneasy. He stared just as determinedly back, and was rewarded when she looked away first. She was stuck, and they both knew it. If she did not agree, then Éomer would find out that she had had Gúthwyn's book taken. Even if Cobryn was accused of going through Lothíriel's possessions at one point, it would only be a matter of time before that became irrelevant.

"We do," the queen at last said angrily. "Do not ever come into this room again."

"Do not ever steal anything of Gúthwyn's again," Cobryn replied, and added sarcastically, "My lady."

With that, he gave a mocking bow, his eyes never leaving hers, and departed from her chambers. Fury was boiling within him, but he knew that it was no use going back to yell at the queen. In order to distract himself, he focused on the item in his hands, wondering just what about it was so important to Gúthwyn. Part of him was sorely tempted to peruse the pages; yet that would be betraying his friend's trust, and he would not have sacrificed that for the world.

When he returned to Gúthwyn's room, she was still frenetically rummaging through her drawers. Objects had been scattered across the floor and her bed, bearing testimony to a frenzied ransacking. She was nearly in tears.

"I cannot find it!" she choked out when she heard him come in. In a spate of frustration, she slammed the drawer. Her tiny frame shook as it made a loud crashing noise.

"Gúthwyn," Cobryn said gently, going over and placing a hand on her shoulder. "I found it."

Her eyes widened in shock as he held it out to her, and when she took it back she asked in amazement, "Where was it?"

Cobryn hesitated for the barest second, and then explained, "It was in the hall, hardly noticeable in the corner. One of the maids must have accidentally brought it out with your clothes. From there, it probably slipped out of the basket."

His excuse was feeble, but Gúthwyn accepted it readily. "Thank you so much," she whispered, getting to her feet. "Thank you so much!"

With that, she wrapped her arms around him, hugging him fiercely and saying, "I owe you more than I can ever hope to repay."

Feeling somewhat awkward, he returned the embrace for a few seconds and replied, "Consider us even, for at the end of things I suspect we will have helped each other a hundredfold. Shall we go on the ride now?"

Gúthwyn nodded and pulled away from him. As she looked down at her book, she bit her lip; a guilty expression was on her face as she asked hesitantly, "Did you, ah… did you read it?"

"No," Cobryn assured her, and the relief that spread across her face was evident.

"I am sorry," she apologized in the next second. "I did not think you would, but…"

"I understand," he said.

Gúthwyn smiled tentatively at him, and then put the book safely in the bottom drawer, closing it firmly. Retrieving her cloak and fastening it around her shoulders, she inquired, "Shall we go?"

* * *

They spent the rest of the afternoon on the rolling plains outside the city, alternately racing and ambling through the long grasses. Cobryn was glad that he had agreed to accompany his friend, for the day had been excellent, not the least because Gúthwyn had enjoyed herself so much. It was a rare occasion to see her so happy, and he took full pleasure in every minute of it.

When they returned to the stalls, they continued their conversation whilst grooming their horses until Gúthwyn announced that she was going behind the stables to air out Heorot's blanket. Cobryn finished brushing his mare's mane not long after, and gazed around while he waited for her to return. The sunlight was filtering in through the roof, making flecks of dust and hay appear in swirls of gold.

After nearly ten minutes, Gúthwyn still had not come back. He was puzzled at this. Though he was no expert on horses, he knew it should not have taken this long for such a simple task. Deciding to go in search of her, he left the stables. As he emerged outside, he glanced around the area, wondering if she had gotten into a conversation with someone and become sidetracked; yet she was nowhere to be found.

Curious, he went around the corner of the building. The ground outside, where the horses' feces generally accumulated, had recently been cleaned by some servants, so he did not have to pick his way over the muck from the stalls. Almost immediately he saw Gúthwyn leaning against the stable wall, her face taut with pain. The blanket lay forgotten on the dirt beside her. She was balancing on her left foot, holding her other in her hand and breathing heavily.

"What happened?" Cobryn asked, going over to her swiftly.

"I think I broke my ankle," Gúthwyn whispered, halfway through the process of untying her boot. "There is a hole—I did not see it—" She gestured towards the pocked ground, which being rough and uneven was a danger to anyone who was not paying close attention to their steps. "I heard a crack…"

"Then it probably is broken," Cobryn agreed, steadying her as she removed her boot. She tensed at the contact, but did not shrink from it. Her breathing became more labored as they saw her ankle: it was completely bent out of shape, and quickly beginning to swell.

"It hurts to even move it," Gúthwyn murmured.

"Is this the one that you have already broken?" Cobryn asked, trying to remember where he had last seen the crutches he had given her.

"Yes," Gúthwyn answered, and hissed sharply when he touched it.

"We need to get some ice on this," Cobryn said. "If you lean on me, I can bring you back to Meduseld."

"What about your own leg?" Gúthwyn pointed out, her breathing becoming shallower. "Will it not hurt?"

"I shall be fine," he assured, hoping that it would not give out beneath him. With the advent of summer it had gotten somewhat better, but he knew that if he strained it too much it would protest.

"Should I…?"

"Ah, put your arm around my shoulders," he suggested, wrapping his own around her waist. It was so tiny that his hand ended up resting on her stomach.

Gúthwyn flinched; he could feel her trying to make herself smaller, so that his hand was suddenly pressing against nothing but air.

"Are you alright?" he asked her quietly, noting how her eyes had widened with anxiety.

She pressed her lips together briefly, and then responded, "I am fine."

Cobryn doubted that this had an even remote resemblance to the truth, but raised his hand a little so that it was closer to her ribcage. Gúthwyn seemed to relax at this, though now he would have to make sure that any sudden movements did not jolt his fingers upwards.

"Thank you," he heard her say, but her voice was so low that it was barely audible.

"Are you ready to go?" he questioned, wondering that she should be so sensitive about her stomach. He had noticed this before. Was she feeling nauseous?

"Yes," Gúthwyn responded, gritting her teeth. "Am I hopping back?"

"Let us attempt that," Cobryn agreed, and tightened his hold on her. "Try not to move your ankle."

"Easier said than done," Gúthwyn muttered, but nevertheless she made the first jump forwards. The ground was craggy, and for an instant her other ankle threatened to roll beneath her. Hurriedly he lifted her up: enough so that she was hardly putting any weight on either foot, but not so that he was in danger of collapsing. This, as it turned out, was not such a concern. _She is as light as a child,_ he marveled.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn breathed once he set her down. Her face was contorted in agony. "Again?"

Cobryn's shoulder was forming the beginnings of a protest, but he nodded. Gúthwyn inhaled deeply to prepare herself and hopped, this time landing firmly. Slowly, painstakingly, they made their way forward, Éomund's daughter wincing with each misstep.

"We must look ridiculous," she grumbled as they gradually gained the corner of the stables. "I am not even wearing my right boot."

"Well, no one ever accused you of being overly genteel in the first place," he pointed out, glancing down at her.

Gúthwyn rolled her eyes. "_Lothíriel_ may have perfect manners and be a wonderful conversationalist, but that does not mean that the rest of us—namely I—have to pale in comparison. At least I have passable etiquette."

A muscle in Cobryn's jaw twitched at the mention of the queen. Luckily, they rounded the stables at that moment, and he was able to say, "We have done it."

"Now, we only have to go up the road," Gúthwyn said, looking at her ankle and then at the path leading to Meduseld.

"And up the stairs," he said then.

A silence fell between the two of them. Their eyes, only a foot apart, met. Gúthwyn's mouth was quivering with an unexplained mirth. He was baffled by this, but soon he too was struggling not to chuckle. At last Gúthwyn gave up and burst out laughing. The sound was enough to make him abandon all his self-restraint, and soon the two of them were nearly beside themselves. The situation was made even more amusing by the fact that they quickly became off-balance, vainly attempting to contain themselves.

"That," Gúthwyn choked out, gasping for breath, "is a hopeless task! We might as well try to climb a mountain! I am sure that it would be equally hard."

"It is not that far…" Cobryn cajoled, knowing his position was a losing one. "In any case, we…"

He trailed off then, for his gaze had just lifted to the Golden Hall and directly upon Lothíriel. The queen was standing beside Éomer, the latter not having noticed either him or Gúthwyn. They must have just emerged onto the landing, for Cobryn had not seen them a minute ago. As Lothíriel's eyes narrowed, he became conscious of just how close his face was to his friend's, and how his arm was wrapped around her waist. Apart from the fact that Gúthwyn was holding her right foot off the ground, nothing else appeared amiss about the two of them—other than their intimacy.

Sometimes, he could have sworn that the queen had an inner sense of when he and Gúthwyn would appear in their most compromising positions.

"Gúthwyn," he said, nudging her gently and gesturing to Éomer. "Your brother is here."

Éomund's daughter looked up. A relieved grin spread across her face at the sight. Upon seeing this, Lothíriel leaned over and whispered something in Éomer's ear. The king started, and turned to see Cobryn and Gúthwyn.

"Sister," he called out, knitting his brow at the sight of her leaning onto the advisor. "Are you all right?"

Gúthwyn shook her head, and attempted to move forwards again. Cobryn supported her, and then shouted, "My lord, her ankle is broken!"

Éomer's eyes widened, and immediately he left Lothíriel. His frame was taut with worry as he hastened down the stairs, narrowly avoiding some passerby as he jogged towards them. "What happened?" he demanded anxiously, putting his hand on Gúthwyn's shoulder as if it would ensure that she did not suddenly faint.

"I accidentally stepped in a hole," Gúthwyn explained, cringing as she was jolted, "and I heard it crack."

"This is the one you have already broken before, is it not?" Éomer asked, bending over slightly to examine it.

"Yes—" Gúthwyn began, and then gasped as her brother lightly prodded it.

"I am sorry," Éomer immediately apologized. "Where did you break it?"

"Behind the stables," Gúthwyn informed him, gesturing vaguely towards the stalls. "I was airing out Heorot's blanket."

Lothíriel appeared then, her face lined with concern. "What happened?" she inquired, and then looked at Gúthwyn. "Why are you barefoot?"

"She broke her ankle," Éomer informed his wife, and then said to Gúthwyn, "I will carry you back."

"No, brother, really, that is unnecessary," Gúthwyn responded earnestly. "If you can give me your arm, I can manage the rest."

"Absolutely not," Éomer said just as firmly. "You will only agitate it by hobbling—and how do you propose to get up the stairs?"

Gúthwyn's cheeks colored. "I had not crossed that bridge yet," she muttered, looking to Cobryn for assistance. He met her eyes but did not say anything: privately, he agreed with Éomer, and would have lifted her himself if his leg was capable of bearing the weight.

Éomer rolled his eyes at his sister's answer, and said shortly, "Pray do not argue with me. I do not want your ankle to become worse."

Biting her lip, Gúthwyn asked, "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Éomer confirmed, and tightened his grip on her.

Cobryn saw Gúthwyn's face pale the tiniest bit before she took a deep breath and nodded. Éomer bent down and scooped her up, the action appearing to cost him little effort. "Lothíriel," he began, nodding at his wife, "can you alert the maids that we need some bandages, and send for the healer as well?"

"Of course," Lothíriel agreed, inclining her head respectfully. She kept the expression on her face veiled for as long as she was facing her husband, but when she glanced at Cobryn he was not surprised to see her eyes flash. Clearly she still thought that he had been too close for Gúthwyn to meet the standards of propriety, especially since Éomund's daughter was all but betrothed to her brother.

The queen departed the next instant, followed shortly afterwards by Éomer. Cobryn watched his friend being carried away, her face contorting whenever her ankle was accidentally jostled.

_You really are unlucky sometimes,_ he thought, and then went to find her crutches.


	70. An Ill Fated Ride

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventy:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Seventy**

It was three weeks before Gúthwyn was allowed to get out of her bed. Éomer refused to let her even walk around with her crutches, as the healer had declared the fracture in her ankle a bad break and thought she might permanently damage it if she put too much strain on it. She had iced the area so much that she no longer had any feeling in it. If the healer touched it to inspect any progress, she would not notice unless she had seen him.

However, after nearly a month of seemingly endless boredom, she was released from her bed, and was able to walk around with crutches. Additionally, she could ride as long as she did not put her right foot in the stirrups or go faster than a trot, which made for an interesting challenge but was better than nothing. Heorot was more than fine with this: His body was beginning to slow down, something that she noted with increasing concern as the month of June neared.

It pained her to think that her beloved stallion might not have much time left in his life, but he had already passed his thirtieth year, which was the average age for a horse to reach. She began spending more time with him, always careful not to push him beyond his limits, and took to visiting him often. Whenever she could, she brought him carrots or—if she was lucky enough to get some—a few sugar cubes.

Heorot's condition was on her mind on a late day in spring as she prepared to go outside. Her afternoon routine had been considerably elongated since her injury, and it now took her the better part of five minutes to struggle into her gown. Cwene, Elflede, and Mildwen had offered to help her several times, but she had refused. Although some of the lighter scars on her body were starting to whiten, the rest of them were hideous, and she still could not repress a shiver when she looked at them.

After a brief tussle with her dress, she finally had all her clothes on the right way and was able to transfer her weight over to her crutches. Hobbling out of her room, she navigated her way down the hall and into the throne room. The first person she saw was Elfwine, who was using a bench to help him walk slowly from one end to the other. Lothíriel was supervising him. She met Gúthwyn's eyes once, and then returned her attentions to her son.

It was not long before Elfwine noticed her. A broad grin came across his face as he shouted, "Gúthy!"

As usual, Gúthwyn found that her heart was in sudden danger of melting. "Hello, little one," she responded, moving closer. "Are you walking yet?"

Elfwine's hand left the bench, and he took a few tottering steps towards her before he lost his balance and abruptly sat down on the floor. The look of surprise on his face was so astute that Gúthwyn could not help laughing. "Soon," she promised. "You are getting closer every day!"

"No," Elfwine said, but he pulled himself to his feet again. This time, he reached out to her, as if she were attached to strings that might help him on his way. He went several more feet until he fell down again, only a yard or two short of his goal.

"Almost there!" Gúthwyn encouraged him happily, nearly swooning when he gazed up at her with his adorable eyes.

"Gúthy!" Elfwine repeated, and lunged forward. Her legs were assaulted, ensconced in the fierce clutches of her nephew. Laughing, she bent down and ruffled his hair.

"Excellent job!" she praised him. Her heart sang when he beamed up at her.

"Up!" he demanded. "Up!"

Obediently, Gúthwyn transferred her crutches to her right side, and then bent down to scoop him up with her left arm. He giggled, reaching up for the familiar comforts of her hair. She let him play with it for awhile, and at length glanced up at his mother.

"Lothíriel," she began cautiously, thinking of something that had been bothering her for weeks.

The queen did not answer; she merely arched an eyebrow, her manner all but daring Éomund's daughter to continue.

She did, though her pride was being punctured with each word that she spoke. "Has Elphir mentioned any… ah, anger towards me recently?"

"No," Lothíriel replied bluntly. Elfwine cooed, planting a wet kiss on Gúthwyn's neck. The other woman's eyes flashed daggers as she inquired, "Why? Have you done something that would displease him?"

Her speech was like a challenge, cruelly inviting Gúthwyn to reveal any of her conduct that might be misconstrued as even remotely inappropriate.

"I have no reason to," Éomund's daughter replied levelly, her heart beginning to race. What she would not give to erase the past, to cut out everything and anything that had to do with Haldor and burn it…

Her voice trembled as she continued, "He has not written to me since November, and he is normally prompt with his responses."

Elfwine grabbed at her face. She blinked, and then gently repositioned his hands so that they were on her hair. He was more than placated with this offering, and said her name happily.

"You are right about that," Lothíriel mused, looking even more haughty than usual. "My brother is excellent at maintaining correspondences. I cannot explain why he suddenly decided that you were not worthy of communicating with, but I suppose the two of you shall have to work that out for yourselves. After all, you _are_ going to be married soon."

Gúthwyn felt a rush of hatred spread through her. If she had a silver coin for every time Lothíriel had insulted her, whether directly or subtly, she would have ended all of Rohan's financial problems in a heartbeat. Yet the woman was her brother's wife—although Lothíriel obviously did not have similar scruples, she would not make derisive comments to her.

"Horse!" Elfwine cried then, pointing to a decoration upon a nearby pillar. Gúthwyn smiled, and would have told him a story about the stallion had Lothíriel not interjected.

"If you do not mind," she began, "I would like to take him back. He was just about to be fed when you walked in."

For the first time, Gúthwyn noticed the small plate of food behind her. "I am sorry," she apologized, and whispered in Elfwine's ear, "Little one, it is time to go to Mama."

Elfwine's eyes widened. "Gúthy," he said adamantly.

Gúthwyn shook her head, gripping her crutches firmly. She had never yet tried walking with both of them on the same side, especially with a baby in her arms, but Lothíriel clearly would not lift a single finger to help her. Slowly she began making her way forward, trying not to wince as she jostled Elfwine. He seemed to be amused by it, and laughed every time she pushed herself closer to Lothíriel, but she was praying that she would not shake him too much.

When she at last reached the queen, she bent down and held out the baby. Elfwine made a valiant swipe for her as he changed hands, but missed by several inches.

"Behave," Gúthwyn warned him, and then adjusted her crutches so that one was under each arm. "Farewell," she added to Lothíriel, but the queen merely nodded.

Sighing softly, Éomund's daughter made her way through the hall, thanking the servant who opened the door for her.

"Good day, my lady," Ceorl bid her, stepping forward as she emerged onto the landing. "Shall I help you down?"

"That would be wonderful," Gúthwyn said, somewhat embarrassed that she needed their aid to simply get onto the street. "Thank you so much."

The other guard, Eanwulf, relieved her of her crutches and steadied her with one hand while Ceorl let her lean on his arm. In this manner, Gúthwyn was able to hop down the stairs, her cheeks bright red as she saw some of the people watching her in amusement. Although she knew that their laughter was not derisive, she still wished that she were not so conspicuous.

"Thank you," she said to both men once she had her crutches back and they had released her. "I am sorry for inconveniencing you."

"Not at all," Ceorl replied, and bowed to her before he and Eanwulf returned to their positions. Gúthwyn watched enviously as they climbed the stairs without needing any support, longing for the time when she was able to do the same.

_Soon,_ she promised herself. At least she was permitted to ride a horse, which hopefully would not take too long to evolve into more strenuous activities. Walking would come in a short amount of time—maybe on her birthday, if she was lucky.

_It is more likely that I shall somehow injure it even more,_ she thought morosely. If this year held to the standard, she would soon have passed the twelfth either awful or unremarkable birthday in a row. While next month they would be celebrating Elfwine's first year as well, Éomer had said on numerous instances that he hoped to have her marriage papers signed on that day. She was not looking forward to the occasion.

Sighing again, she bit her lip as her thoughts turned to Elphir. Why had he not written to her since last fall? She had finally given up and sent her last letter a few weeks ago, but it hurt that he did not think their correspondence worth maintaining. It was easy to imagine him being busy for a few weeks, or even a couple of months—yet nearly three seasons had gone by, with no word or sign from him.

"Gúthwyn!"

Startled, her heart froze for a few seconds before regaining its normal beat. Glancing up, she saw Éomer approaching her, a broad smile on his face and Gúthwinë in his hands.

"Hello, brother," she greeted him, resting on her crutches as she spoke.

"How are you?" was his reply. His eyes swept to her ankle, as if expecting to see it through her thick riding boot.

"I am well, thank you," Gúthwyn answered, choosing not to inform him of her preoccupation with her future husband. "And yourself?"

"Excellent," he responded. "Unfortunately for Gamling."

Laughing, she teased, "He must have been having an off day—you have not practiced for weeks!"

"I still know a thing or two, baby sister," he smirked, reaching out and ruffling her hair. Gúthwyn gave a cry in protest.

"I am not a baby," she said indignantly, though she was grinning at the same time.

"Have it your way," Éomer retorted. Both of them knew he would continue to use the nickname for years to come. "Were you just about to go riding?"

"Yes, I was," Gúthwyn confirmed, and then smiled. "Would you like to go with me?"

"I would," Éomer agreed. "I can manage in this—shall we go to the stables, then?"

"Of course," Gúthwyn said, and turned her crutches in the direction of the building. She tried to go fast for Éomer's sake, thinking that he would find it tedious to have to slow down for her, but when she explained this position he laughed and informed her that she could take all the time in the world. Thereafter she went at an easier pace, and continued in that manner until they arrived at the stables.

Once inside, she left her crutches against the wall of Heorot's stall and hobbled over to greet him. Almost immediately, she noticed something that had not been there a few days ago: a few patches on his coat where the fur had fallen off. It was a sign of age, the kind that foretold an imminent death. It would only be a matter of time before his entire body was covered with them.

"Oh, no," she whispered, reaching forward and tentatively touching the bare skin, half-afraid of causing more hairs to fall out. He whickered balefully, seeming resigned to his fate.

For a long time she stood there and gently stroked him. It was only when she heard an inquiry from Éomer that she at last looked up.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, glancing back at Heorot as she spoke. Her brother had already prepared his horse, and was standing with him outside of the stall.

"Is something wrong?" he questioned, looping Firefoot's tether around a post and opening the door to join her.

"It is Heorot," Gúthwyn informed him, struggling to swallow the lump in her throat. "He has…" She could only gesture.

Éomer's expression sobered, and carefully he prodded the patches. Heorot snorted, but did not otherwise move against him. The king examined him for only a minute before sighing and saying, "He has lived a long life."

"I know," Gúthwyn murmured, her shoulders drooped.

Éomer put a soothing hand on her back. "Besides," he added, "he may have several months to a year left."

Gúthwyn drew in a shaky breath. "I noticed awhile ago that his movements were slower… and what good will that time be, if he is suffering?"

"If you feel like he is in pain," Éomer said quietly, "then we shall have him put to sleep."

She shook her head quickly, knowing that it was a logical decision but doubting that she would ever have the heart to willfully take her horse's life. Some Riders, she knew, had done so before; yet that was generally only if they had been wounded beyond healing in battle, or if they were disease-ridden. Heorot had neither of these afflictions.

"Are you ready?" Éomer asked softly, bringing her out of her thoughts.

Sighing, she nodded. "I just need to put his saddle on," she replied, and set about doing so. Once she had finished, she took his lead rope and brought him out of the stall. Their going was slow, for she had to hop her way through the door, yet at the same time take care not to tug at Heorot too hard.

"Do you need help?" Éomer inquired as she was preparing to mount.

Gúthwyn shook her head, determined to do at least something for herself. With some difficulty, she placed her left foot in the stirrup and swung her other leg over. Once she was seated, she glanced down at Heorot and rubbed his ears. She was relieved to see that he was not showing any strain: on their last ride, he had been panting heavily towards the end, though she had lost some weight due to lying in bed and normally would not have been a trouble for him to bear.

Sighing somewhat, she looked back at Éomer. He was already on Firefoot, having taken half the time she had. "Shall we go?" she inquired.

The siblings made their way out of the stalls, unusually quiet as the road opened before them. Gúthwyn's mind was turning over her impending marriage contract. Had the memory of her stays in Haldor's tent not held sway over her, she could have safely said that she had never dreaded anything more. As it were, her nights had become all but sleepless. She would lie awake, shivering, trying and failing to keep herself from thinking about being forced to share Elphir's bed.

At the thought, Gúthwyn's stomach turned, and she thought she would be sick. In just a few months, she would return to the cycle of having to please someone, regardless of how she felt while he was inside her. What if, when the time came, she panicked and started writhing at his touch? He would think that she was pathetic and weak—or he would be disgusted by her impurity. What if he wanted to end their marriage?

_Éomer will be disappointed with me,_ she thought miserably. _He has wanted this union for the better part of a year, if not more._

_What about what _you_ want?_ another part of her demanded. _You have always put your family and friend's concerns before yours! Why did you let Éomer press you into agreeing to wed Elphir?_

_He has been kind enough to let Hammel, Haiweth, and I live with him, despite the fact that he has his own family now,_ she told herself firmly. _He could have easily told us to leave whenever he grew weary of our company—yet he did not. Is it so difficult to respect his wishes?_

She was pulled out of her musings by the sound of her name being called. Starting, she looked up to see Éomer watching her.

"I am sorry," she apologized. "I was lost in my thoughts—what did you say?"

"I was wondering how Hammel and Haiweth were doing," he explained as they neared the gates.

"Fine," Gúthwyn instinctively said. After a few seconds, she elaborated. "Actually… Hammel, not so well."

She sighed, recalling the expression on Hammel's face whenever he saw Aldeth and Wulfríd walking together. The two children had been seen in each other's company increasingly often—it was now quite obvious that Wulfríd was interested in the girl as more than a mere acquaintance. For her part, Aldeth never seemed particularly wooed by Wulfríd's overtures, but she had always been quiet and rarely showed her emotions.

"What is wrong with him?" Éomer cautiously prodded when Gúthwyn did not elucidate.

"He is having trouble befriending others," she told him. "Nor is he showing prowess with a sword."

"Perhaps you should give him lessons, sister," Éomer said, a brief trace of a smile tugging at his lips.

Gúthwyn chuckled a little, and then thanked Balman as the guard bid her and the king an enjoyable ride. The gates opened before them, revealing a dazzling display of broad, open plains. There was a gentle wind blowing, rustling the long grasses and originating from the tall, distant mountains. She could see nothing but a green carpet for leagues upon leagues, broken only by the azure blue horizon.

Smiling to herself, Gúthwyn inwardly marveled at how beautiful the Riddermark was during the summer. It was her favorite time of year, for she did not spend it shivering from the cold and she could go out riding far more frequently. Éomer usually had less to do during this season, as well, the result being that they often journeyed to the River Snowbourn and went swimming with Hammel and Haiweth. Lothíriel was always welcome to join, but more often than not she elected to remain at the Golden Hall.

Coming to herself again, Gúthwyn nudged Heorot forward to catch up with Éomer. "It is a wonderful day out," she called, grinning.

"Aye, it is," he responded. "Where would you like to ride?"

"Anywhere," Gúthwyn said swiftly. They would not go much further than her usual limit, for Balman would worry about the king not having a guard, but hopefully they would be able to travel beyond the hill.

Éomer laughed at her eagerness. "One might think that we lock you in your chambers all day," he teased.

"Never," Gúthwyn replied happily.

They cantered further out into the plains as they spoke, the wind whipping at their faces and creating a pleasant sensation on Gúthwyn's neck. She was glad that she had run into her brother, as her rides with him were always something that she enjoyed.

Éomer waited until they had gone some distance from the city until he inquired, "What of Haiweth?"

"She is doing well," Gúthwyn answered, smiling as she thought of the girl. "Her drawings have improved greatly. She is working at them nearly every day."

"That is good to hear," Éomer remarked.

A sudden thought occurred to Gúthwyn, and she asked, "Did I tell you what Elfwine said to me yesterday?"

The expression on his face softened as he said, "No—what?"

"We were playing with his army," Gúthwyn began, her heart almost melting at the memory, "and I asked him to find me the bravest warrior. He looked around and said, 'Papa gone!'"

A broad grin spread across Éomer's face, try though he might to conceal it. Glad to have made him so happy, Gúthwyn added, "You are lucky to have such a wonderful son."

"That I am," Éomer agreed, and reflected on this for a time. Gúthwyn was more than content to let him remain in his thoughts, but before long he glanced at her and said softly, "Perhaps you will be a mother soon."

The warmth of the day evaporated, replaced by a cold chill about her heart. "I already have Hammel and Haiweth," she answered stiffly.

"They are not yours," Éomer reminded her, though not unkindly. "Do you not want a son or a daughter of your own?"

Gúthwyn bit her lip. She _did_ want a child—Elfwine, the Valar bless him, had shown her that—but she did not want Elphir to be the father. For what love could she possibly show to the offspring of a union that she had resisted in the first place? If she had given birth to Haldor's baby, it would have been a constant reminder of the time she had spent beneath him. Would it not be the same with Elphir?

For a moment, an uneasy memory stirred along the fringes of her mind, but when she tried to grasp it the shadow vanished.

"Gúthwyn?"

Swallowing, she replied carefully, "I do… but not now."

Éomer looked somewhat mollified at her response, though she was feeling worse by the minute. She had not wanted to be reminded of Elphir during their ride. Now a cloud would hang over her for hours, and she would not be able to keep herself from thinking of their wedding night.

To make matters even worse, Éomer shifted in his saddle and said then, "I received a letter from Legolas today."

Gúthwyn saw Haldor's cruel smirk in front of her as she asked, "Y-You did?"

Éomer nodded, observing her closely. She tried to keep her face from turning pale. "He is journeying to Mirkwood… ah, Eryn Lasgalen, as we speak, and he shall be passing through Rohan in just over a week."

Gúthwyn's grip on Heorot's reigns tightened, but she made a conscious effort to conceal her discomfort from her brother. "That is nice," she spoke, looking at the mountains. They suddenly struck her as tall and menacing.

"Will it displease you if I invite him to rest here?" Éomer asked.

His scrutiny was making her uncomfortable. "It is fine," she quickly assured him, trying to quell the tremors racing through her. "It matters not to me."

"Are you sure?" Éomer pressed.

"_Yes,_" Gúthwyn said sharply, and then sighed. "I am sorry," she apologized. "I did not mean to snap at you."

"Is something wrong?" Éomer wanted to know.

Gritting her teeth, Gúthwyn replied, "No, there is not. Have you yet received word from Dol Amroth about the marriage contract?"

It was not a seamless transition, but it worked—although not to her advantage, for Éomer grinned and answered, "We are awaiting Imrahil's signatures. Once we receive them, it is up to you and I to sign our names, and then you shall be officially betrothed to him."

"You already sent the final terms?" Gúthwyn asked, horror-struck. She had known her brother's intent to have her engaged by her birthday, but she had not been aware that he was so close to succeeding.

Éomer raised an eyebrow. "Three weeks ago, sister," he said. "Did I not tell you?"

Gúthwyn frowned. She did recall Éomer sending his last letter to Imrahil, but she had tuned him out while he was explaining its contents.

"I suppose you did," she admitted miserably, "but I did not realize that we were awaiting the final response."

"Well, we are," Éomer said cheerfully, oblivious to her mood. "You will love it in Dol Amroth. It is a beautiful city."

_No, I will not!_ she wanted to scream at him. _I care nothing for the Sea! My home is in Rohan, not Gondor! I have no desire to marry Elphir or to become a princess! Why can you not see that?_

Her good mood was now thoroughly ruined. She wanted to do nothing more than return to the Golden Hall, where she could retreat into her chambers and not emerge until dinnertime. Even the sight of Éomer was irritating—how could he not understand that she was utterly opposed to this union? After all she had told him about her past, why was he so enthusiastic about her impending marriage, when it would only force her to relive the horrible memories?

—_he was just inches away from her, though she could not see him… his breath was hot on her face, and his hands were sliding up and down her stomach as he whispered, "Beg…"—_

"No!"

A strangled cry escaped her, and for a moment she was back in Haldor's tent, cringing into the wall as he broke her. She felt as if she would vomit; she could not breathe or think, nor see anything in the endless dark surrounding her. Blood was trickling between her legs, staining her with humiliation. Terrified, she begged for release, but as the tent was thrust into light she realized that Elphir was the one touching her...

When she saw his leering face, she choked, and was flung into a burst of color. She found that she was sitting on Heorot, a tight pressure on her right arm. Éomer was gripping it, a fearful expression on his face as he urgently called her name.

"What—What happened?" Gúthwyn gasped, suddenly disoriented and out of breath. She attempted to twist out of Éomer's grasp, but he was holding her too firmly. "Let go!"

"What is wrong with you?" Éomer demanded, his voice grating harshly on her ears. "You started panicking—you were shouting "Please!" and twisting—you were lucky you were not thrown from your horse—what happened?"

"Nothing!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, trying to understand what was going on. "I-I do not—let go of me!"

"That was _not_ nothing!" Éomer nearly roared, looking disturbed. He was frightening her. She tried to pull away, but he would not release her. Their horses were shifting uneasily beneath them, once or twice pawing at the ground. "You have never done that before—why were you yelling?"

"Stop it!" Gúthwyn choked out, the images in her mind draining out as if she were cupping water in her hands. She was confused and bewildered, furious at both herself for being so weak and Éomer for not listening to her. Her breath was coming in short, sharp heaves; she could barely manage to command, "Let go!"

Something struck her across the face, its force so great that her head twisted to the side and she nearly fell off Heorot. A loud silence fell on her ears, interrupted only by her ragged breathing. Shocked, she placed her hand over her aching cheek and stared at her brother. He, too, was astounded, as if he could not believe that he had just hit her.

"Gúthwyn," he breathed, disgust marring his every word.

Éomund's daughter kicked Heorot, urging the horse into near immediate gallop. Caught off-guard, Éomer released her hand, and fell behind as a surge of a thousand different emotions blurred her vision. Heorot's hooves thundered over the plain; he knew where to go, though she was blind with terror, confusion, and an inexplicable rage. Together they crested the hill, Gúthwyn ignoring the sounds of Éomer shouting her name. The blood rushing through her ears was almost enough to deafen his voice.

As she neared the Golden Hall, someone came riding out, drawing within a few yards of her before she recognized him as Balman.

"My lady," he began anxiously, "Where is the king? We heard cries a minute ago—"

"Over there," Gúthwyn gasped, gesturing wildly over her shoulder. "Excuse me—I feel sick—"

It was not far from the truth. Balman nodded and moved out of her way, allowing her to pick up speed and pass through the gates. She was wheezing now, clutching her chest. _What is wrong with me?_ she wondered. _What did I do? Why was I panicking? What was I thinking about?_

She could remember nothing about her fright, nor even what had triggered the sensation. All she could recall was a wild terror coursing through her veins, a feeling of all hope lost and nothing but eternal blackness. This dread spurred her on through the city, consuming her so that she could not stop even when Heorot began wheezing and she was forced to avoid civilians. Mercifully, the streets were not too busy, and aside from a few doing their chores she did not encounter any.

After what felt like an eternity she came to a halt in front of Meduseld. Quickly she leaped off her horse, but a shoot of pain raced through her ankle and she cried out in pain. Almost immediately, the guards left their position and leapt down the stairs to help her. She tried to step away from their suddenly threatening forms, but they were upon her before she had gone any measurable distance.

"My lady," Eanwulf said anxiously, his hand reaching out to steady her. She gasped as his fingers made contact, but he mistook her distress for agony and held her even tighter. "You should have been more careful!" he informed her. "You could have done further harm to yourself."

"Are you feeling well?" Ceorl pressed her, frowning. "You look as if you are about to faint."

"I am fine," Gúthwyn choked out, her heart hammering frenetically. What if Éomer came back and saw her? He would catch up to her, he would… "Please, I must go inside, it is important!"

It was too late. Even as she spoke, the pounding of hooves heralded Éomer's approach. Firefoot snorted as he was forced to stop on such a short notice, but for once his owner barely noticed. Dismounting, he crossed the last remaining feet to her in the blink of an eye. Eanwulf and Ceorl both backed away, sensing that it would be best not to interfere. Gúthwyn trembled as Éomer grabbed her by the shoulders.

"What was that?" he demanded, shaking her. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? What were you thinking?"

"_I do not know!_" she shrieked at him, drawing stares from the guards. "_Let go of me!_"

"By the Valar, Gúthwyn," he hissed. "This is not the place to make a scene! Answer me!"

All of the energy suddenly drained out of Éomund's daughter. She was too weak; she could not fight anymore, she was too cowardly. "Let go," she whispered, her only saving grace being that she was not crying. "Please, let go of me…"

"What happened out there?" he interrogated her, not listening to a word she was saying."

"Éomer, _please,_" she begged, hating herself with each syllable that she spoke. "Let go of me!"

"My lord, maybe you should…" Ceorl began; then he trailed off, silenced by her brother's glare. Yet Éomer released her, holding up his hands and stepping back as the weight of the world was lifted from her.  
"There," he said, his breathing heavy. "I have let go of you. Now, answer me."

A few bystanders had begun to gather around them, watching curiously the scene unfolding before their eyes. Defenseless, trapped beneath her brother's scrutiny and unable to escape, she drew herself up to her full height and tried to assemble a blank expression on her face. She would not let her own people see her weakness—they would pity her, they would whisper amongst themselves as she passed them by.

_There goes Gúthwyn… they say she is mad, poor thing._

_I heard that she cannot sleep without at least five candles in her room._

_She was sick again last week._

_Frail, frail girl… I can only imagine what the king must pay the healer each year…_

_More than I shall make in my entire life, I would wager._

_They should keep her locked in her room—who knows what might frighten her?_

_Maybe I _am _mad,_ she thought despairingly. _I cannot remember what I was panicking about earlier, I do not know why I am panicking now—what is wrong with me? Why am I like this? What about the days when I was strong, when to fall apart like this would bring the worst shame upon my family?_

"Gúthwyn!"

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again.

"I am fine. Will you please help me up the stairs? I am afraid that my ankle will not support me."

Éomer's mouth dropped open. "E-Excuse me?" he at last spluttered.

Desperate to maintain the façade, at least until she was in the safety of her chambers, Gúthwyn tilted her head and questioned, "Should I ask someone else? I would not want to inconvenience you."

"Gúthwyn, what—"

She stepped closer to him, despite every nerve in her body screaming at her to do the opposite. "This is not the place to make a scene," she muttered, tossing his own words back at him. "I want to go inside."

Understanding clicked in his eyes, but at the same time he narrowed them, giving her a silent warning. "Ceorl," he said, not lifting his gaze from her as he spoke, "will you find someone to put Firefoot and Heorot away? I shall come out later and see to them, but for now Gúthwyn and I are going to return inside."

Completely nonplussed, Ceorl nevertheless obeyed, and within a few seconds one of the stableboys was leading the horses away. Gúthwyn morosely watched Heorot go, knowing that she would be ruthlessly interrogated by her brother in just a moment's time.

"Come, sister," Éomer said quietly, offering her his arm. "You have had enough for one day."

"Do not speak to me as if I am a child!" she snapped, her voice soft enough so that only he could hear it. At the same time, however, she had no other choice but to take hold of him, for she was utterly incapable of going up the stairs on her own.

Éomer's response was to place his foot on the first step. Gúthwyn glanced back as she followed suit and was relieved to see the people dispersing, convinced that nothing serious had happened.

The two siblings ascended in silence, and did not break it until they had passed through the doors. It was then that Éomer turned around and growled, "Tell me why you just put your _dying_ horse into a gallop in an effort to run away from me!"

Gúthwyn recoiled as though she had been slapped. "I-I…"

"Or, how about why you were screaming?" he continued, though she was steadily growing paler.

"I-I do not know," she finally whispered. "I cannot remember a thing. There is naught else I can say. Please, brother, I just want… I just want to get some rest."

"Gúthwyn, you are frightening me," Éomer said urgently. "Why are you doing this?"

"I am not doing anything!" she protested miserably. "They keep coming to me!"

"_They_ keep coming to you?" Éomer repeated, leaning in closer.

Gúthwyn flung up her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Everything," she said, struggling not to cry. "The nightmares, the voices, the memories…"

Éomer's eyes were wide as he beheld her, almost like he was seeing her for the first time. She could tell that he had had no inkling of what had been haunting her ever since the end of the War. Her face turned bright red in embarrassment, for she did not want him to view her as weak.

_What is the use?_ she asked herself. _He already thinks I am pathetic. He has seen me cry, he has seen me sick, he knows about Haldor._

"E-Excuse me," she murmured. "Do not follow me, please…"

And he did not. Even when her ankle gave out beneath her and she nearly fell, he did not hinder her or walk behind her. Even when her limp became gradually more pronounced, until she was grimacing in pain with each step and the servants in the hall were gaping, he did not come after her. This small mercy the Valar had granted her; she stumbled to her room, thanking them for it. Alone: that was what she wanted to be.

Later, Éomer repented of his actions, and sought his sister out. He was unsuccessful. She had locked the door against him, and though he banged on the frame and ordered her to open it, she would not. For inside her chambers, Gúthwyn had crawled underneath the covers and hidden herself beneath them in shame. A tangy, foul smell was in the air, but it was the same one that the maids never noticed unless it crept up on them at an odd chance. They thought it was her soap.


	71. A Breach of Trust

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventy-One:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Seventy-One**

As Rohan entered the month of June, Gúthwyn was finally able to abandon her crutches, though she still walked with a limp. She hoped that this would not be the case for the rest of her life, yet hers was nothing compared to Cobryn's and she knew she was lucky that it did not pain her so much. For the most part her activities were unimpaired, the sole exception being her lack of stamina on the training grounds.

This, however, would change once she had gotten some more practice in, and all in all she was feeling rather well on the day that Legolas was set to arrive. She had arisen at noon, as usual, sparred with several of the men, tutored Haiweth in geography—a laughable task, as she had the worst directional capabilities out of anyone she knew—and even gone for a ride with Cobryn. Although she felt a twinge of nervousness whenever she thought of Legolas, she tried to suppress it and for the most part succeeded.

As the afternoon waned and evening settled in, Gúthwyn found herself standing in front of her dresser, wondering what to wear. The white gown at the back of her wardrobe nagged at her mind, but she refused to listen to it. Éomer had made a point to ask her to wear a color other than grey; her compliance with such a request was guaranteed to make her edgy for the rest of the night.

_That I most certainly do not need,_ she thought morosely. Ever since her panic attack a couple of weeks ago—which she could not explain, and was disturbed by to no end—Éomer had pressed her relentlessly about her health. Her meals were closely monitored and frowned upon, as well as any slightest hesitation or pause in a conversation. She hated the scrutiny and wished he would stop, but she knew that he was merely trying to ensure her safety.

Also adding to her discomfort was a series of recurring nightmares that had begun troubling her sleep, ones that she had never experienced before. She was always in the stables, carefully grooming Heorot. Whenever she left the stall, a pair of arms would reach out and grab her, pushing her painfully into the wall and roughly forcing themselves on her. Sometimes it was Haldor; more often than not, it was Elphir. Once Borogor had gently kissed her, removing all of the strife from her body, but then he had changed into her future husband.

This dream had terrified her on the night of his death. June seventh had come and gone, and with it painful memories that had stuck a lump in her throat throughout the entire day. Such remorse and regret had filled her that she could barely find the strength to get out of bed; no matter what she did, in whose company she placed herself, she had wanted to crawl back to her room and release all her tears for what could have been. Yet she had not.

"My lady?"

Pulled out of her thoughts, Gúthwyn turned her head to see Cwene in the doorway, an eyebrow raised. "You are not going to be able to change simply by staring at your gowns," she commented.

Gúthwyn flushed a little, but sighed even more as she assessed her situation. The only dress she had been contemplating wearing was her green one, but she had garbed herself in that not a week ago and it was still awaiting the opportunity to be taken to the washing circles. Now that that choice had been ruled out, she was left with having to make a decision between her stuffy, formal gowns.

"Why will you not wear white, child?" Cwene asked irritably, striding over to the wardrobe and pulling out the garment Éowyn had given her for her wedding to Faramir. "Look at this! Any woman your age would kill to have this, and yet you refuse to even glance at it!"

Briefly, Gúthwyn felt a sense of guilt, for she was aware that she was lucky to be in her position, but she simply could not muster any desire to don the outfit. "I do not like white," was all she said. "It does not suit me."

"You are terribly wrong in that regard," Cwene immediately barked. "Do not be ridiculous. It looks wonderful on you—far better than what you are wearing now." She sniffed angrily, and then examined Gúthwyn's figure critically. Éomund's daughter inwardly groaned, knowing what would come next.

She was right. "When are you going to gain some weight?" Cwene demanded. "You are as thin as a rail, if not more. Why, my seven-year-old boy is probably heavier than you!"

The maid was exaggerating, of course, but Gúthwyn felt that it would be best to change the subject. "How is he?" she inquired, hoping that Cwene would become absorbed by tales about her son.

"Fine," Cwene answered shortly, crushing her expectations. "Do not think you are being let off the hook that easily! What will Elphir say when he sees you?"

"I care not," Gúthwyn muttered, her fists clenching at the mention of her future husband. She had been in such excellent spirits during the afternoon…

"He shall ask why he received a skeleton, instead of his bride!" Cwene exclaimed. "What will it take to make you start eating properly?"

"Cwene, _please!_" Gúthwyn hissed, unable to stand anymore of the woman's well-meant scolding. "I think I shall wear the blue gown."

Cwene clucked her tongue in annoyance, but refrained from saying anything else. Much to Gúthwyn's unease, she stepped inside and closed the door as she began to change. Éomund's daughter disliked undressing in front of her servants, even though she never removed her shift in their presence. All too often, her body became fodder for concerned comments about her weight.

As it were, Cwene glared at her the entire time her arms and legs were exposed, and had to make a conscious effort not to lose her temper. Gúthwyn felt as if she were a rabbit under a hawk's eye, being closely observed in order to determine whether or not she was worth a meal. Luckily for her, she evidently was not, for when Cwene went to brush her hair not a single word was spoken about her lightness.

The next few minutes were spent wincing as Cwene yanked the comb relentlessly through her locks, not stopping even when Gúthwyn gasped in pain. By the time she was done, Éomund's daughter would have bet all of her gowns that her scalp was bright red. She was still rubbing it as she thanked the maid—albeit half-heartedly—and was cringing from the memory as she went to retrieve the children.

Haiweth she found humming a merry tune whilst drawing a scene of butterflies. Gúthwyn smiled at the sight, assured her that the illustration was beautiful, and gently prodded her to get dressed and ready to greet Legolas. Haiweth seemed mildly put out at this, and bit her lip several times before complying. Gúthwyn privately agreed with her, wondering little why the girl was so disturbed.

She had tried, on numerous occasions, to find more differences between Legolas and Haldor, but beyond the fact that Legolas had never sought to do her harm, she could discern none. The way in which they looked, spoke, and walked were identical—even their archery techniques were the same. She wished desperately that she could forget all that she had suffered at Haldor's hands, and anticipate Legolas's visits the way that a normal person would, but the memories had been branded onto her, even moreso than the Eye of Sauron.

"I am ready to go," Haiweth announced then, bringing her out of her thoughts. Smiling at her, Gúthwyn led the way out of her chambers and towards Hammel's room. The door was firmly closed; he rarely left it open, something that made Gúthwyn keenly aware of his growing distance from her. Sighing somewhat, she lifted her hand and knocked on the door.

"It is Gúthwyn," she said, just a few seconds before she opened the door and leaned inside. Hammel was lying on his bed, a book in his hands and a frown on his face.

Puzzled, Gúthwyn asked, "Is something wrong?"

"No," he grunted shortly. "What is it?"

"Legolas will be here soon," Gúthwyn replied. "Are you dressed properly?"

Hammel glanced at his outfit, allowing Éomund's daughter to see that he had not, in fact, clad himself in appropriate garments.

"Please change," she told him. "Éomer would like us to present ourselves well to the Elves."

The boy raised an eyebrow. "I highly doubt any of them will even notice what we are wearing," he muttered. "Or particularly care."

"That is not the point," Gúthwyn answered. "My brother wishes for us to be dressed according to the occasion, and it is polite to show your guests that you are treating their visit as more than an every-day occurrence."

Hammel appeared to be on the verge of rolling his eyes, but he got to his feet nevertheless and went towards his wardrobe. Gúthwyn returned to the hall and waited with Haiweth for him to emerge.

"He is always so slow," Haiweth complained after five minutes had gone by. She was beginning to fidget.

"Hammel?" Gúthwyn called, knocking on the door again. "Are you ready?"

She heard the faint sound of a book being closed before the door opened, revealing a stony-faced Hammel.

"_Finally,_" Haiweth said, and flounced off in the direction of the throne room.

"What is wrong?" Gúthwyn asked Hammel in an undertone as they followed his sister at a more sedate pace.

"Nothing," Hammel muttered, not meeting her eyes.

"Lately it seems as if something is constantly troubling you," Gúthwyn remarked gently.

"Nothing is troubling me," Hammel replied woodenly.

"Does it have anything to do with Aldeth?" Gúthwyn inquired.

"I said, it is _nothing_," Hammel snarled abruptly. "It is not a difficult concept to grasp."

With that, he quickened his strides until he had overtaken Haiweth and left Gúthwyn to walk by herself, feeling somewhat hurt that he had not confided her when obviously something was bothering him. It disconcerted her, also, to hear the tone in his voice. It was hostile, yet at the same time she thought she detected a disdainful undercurrent, as if he was losing respect for her with each word that she spoke.

_He knows what you were doing with Haldor._

When the unbidden thought crossed her mind, Gúthwyn swallowed and hurried after Haiweth, determined to ignore it. At the end of the War, Hammel had only been eight; he would not have been able to understand why she was absent from the tent once a week, nor the root of her terror whenever she saw Haldor. _He is simply angry because Aldeth has been accompanying Wulfríd throughout the city,_ she told herself firmly. _He has not realized what Haldor demanded of me—nor will he ever, if it is in my power to keep him from doing so._

Her musings were ended when she passed into the great hall. Much of the guard had assembled there, ready to formally greet the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen. That did not stop many of them from waving cheerfully at Gúthwyn, and she returned their greetings just as happily. Tun merely nodded at her, and received a tentative smile in response.

"Sister," Éomer called then. A shout of "Gúthy!" followed in his wake.

Grinning, Gúthwyn bade the children to stand beside Cobryn, who was leaning against one of the pillars and silently watching the proceedings. She then made her way over to Éomer and Elfwine, slightly irritated by her limp.

"Here, let me help you," Éomer swiftly said, and before she could protest he came down from his throne to assist her up the stairs of the dais. Gúthwyn reluctantly accepted his aid, and found the ensuing climb far easier than she cared to admit. Once she had thanked him, she turned her attentions to Elfwine, who was reaching for her from his perch on Lothíriel's lap.

"Hello, little one," she greeted him cheerfully. "Have you been behaving yourself?"

"No!" Elfwine shouted gleefully, causing Lothíriel to wince.  
"Lower your voice," she told him, but her words fell on deaf ears, and the king's heir began squirming in her lap.

"Gúthy," he commanded.

Éomer laughed at this. "He seems quite infatuated with you, sister," he remarked. "Éowyn might grow jealous when she next visits."

"I am sure Elfwine will not mind sharing his affections," Gúthwyn chuckled. Lothíriel sighed, and gave up trying to restrain her son.

"Would you mind holding him?" she inquired.

"Of course not," Gúthwyn agreed, and reached out for the wriggling body of her nephew. Elfwine gave an ecstatic cry when he was in her arms, and promptly set about pulling at her locks.

"Son," Éomer said sternly, but Elfwine giggled impishly at him and otherwise paid no heed.

"It is all right," Gúthwyn assured her brother, kissing Elfwine's brow. "He is more than welcome to play with my hair."

Elfwine cooed, and then pushed his open palm into her face. His skin was so soft that the impact did little other than to make her laugh; even so, she gently directed his hand over to the side, so that it was again immersed in her hair.

"You know," she murmured in his ear, "you will be one year old soon."

Understanding nothing of the concept, Elfwine gave her a gap-toothed grin.

"You and I shall celebrate our birthdays together," she informed him. "I must find you a present."

Anything made of cloth was beyond her means: her sewing was abysmal, and she did not even know how to use knitting needles. Carving, too, was something that she was terrible at, and the last time she had attempted to draw, she had not been able to recognize the subject. Aside from a few coins that she had collected, she really did not have much money, and in any case wanted to make something for her nephew's first birthday.

She tried to think of what she had given the children over the years. In Mordor, she had not been able to do much beyond kiss them and wish them a happy birthday, but recently she had acquired a few books for Hammel and some drawing pads for Haiweth, all of which had been gratefully received. Maybe she could do something similar…

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of the doors opening. Her heart began beating rapidly, but was quelled when Gamling appeared, bowing and saying, "They have passed through the gates."

"Thank you," Éomer replied, inclining his head. No sooner had he spoke than there was a chaotic rush to assume welcoming positions. At a nod from Lothíriel, Gúthwyn retreated down the stairs with Elfwine, wincing somewhat at the additional weight on her ankle. She clutched him close to her as she drew back from the doors, tempted to join Cobryn and the children but knowing that it would not be deemed appropriate for her station.

It seemed as if she had only had enough time to blink before Legolas entered the hall, his slender frame appearing taller than the other Elves though he was shorter in stature than some. Gúthwyn swallowed as he moved closer towards her, now and then nodding at a familiar face. Elfwine was watching him curiously, obviously having no memory of him from his previous visits.

Her heart hammered wildly in her chest when Legolas glanced in her direction, offering a hesitant smile. She somehow managed to return it, keenly aware of what she must have looked like with a baby in her arms. Elfwine had none of these concerns and waved merrily at the Elf, eliciting a faint grin from him that only Gúthwyn caught.

Holding her gaze for another second, Legolas then turned to Éomer and exchanged greetings with him. Gúthwyn did not hear most of what they spoke: her eyes had drifted over to the other Elves, coming to rest on Raniean. During his last visit, Legolas had informed her that he was prejudiced against humans, thinking them inferior to immortals. She surreptitiously studied his face, noting the cold frame of his eyes and the way he seemed to be looking down on even her brother.

She must not have been as discreet as she thought, for almost immediately he sensed her watching him. When he deigned to glance at her, his expression hardened, and she was momentarily taken aback by the disdain written across his features. The look, however, was over almost as soon as it occurred, and he reverted his eyes back to Legolas, the way in which he did so making it seem as if she were not worth his attention.

Sighing, she told herself that she had no right to complain at this behavior, especially when she had treated Legolas so horribly.

"Gúthy," Elfwine said then, snuggling deeper into her arms and beaming up at her.

"Hello, little one," she whispered, kissing him on the nose and watching as his grin grew wider. "These stuffy events must be boring for you." She leaned closer and added conspiratorially, "They are for me, as well."

Elfwine put his finger over his lips.

"My lady," a voice said then. Its alarmingly close proximity to her made her jump; when she looked up, she realized that Legolas was standing before her. Instinctively, she held Elfwine tighter.

Legolas smirked a little, and continued, "I am sorry for boring you."

Upon the dais, she could see Éomer shaking his head in exasperation, evidently annoyed that she had not noticed their guests approaching her. Gúthwyn's cheeks turned bright red, and she hastened to say, "I did not mean—it was not—I do not—I mean…"

Raniean raised an eyebrow.

"I was jesting," Legolas told her gently, and she blinked in surprise. "I understand your weariness."

"Oh," Gúthwyn said, feeling somewhat disconcerted and more than a little flustered. "I…"

Mercifully, Legolas changed the subject then. "Elfwine has grown," he remarked.

"Yes, he has," Gúthwyn agreed instantly, eager to latch onto the topic. "It is almost his first birthday."

"No," Elfwine said cheerfully, curling his fingers around her hair.

"As you can tell, he is also starting to speak," Gúthwyn told Legolas.

"No."

Legolas laughed at this, and then asked quietly, "And what of yourself?"

"I am well, thank you," Gúthwyn answered, feeling a tremor of nervousness running through her as the focus of the conversation turned towards her. "H-How have you been?"

"Well enough," Legolas responded.

"No."

"Elfwine," Gúthwyn reprimanded the baby. Inside, though, she was grateful for him interrupting what otherwise might have degenerated into an utterly boring conversation about the weather or whatnot, throughout which she would have had to constantly remind herself that she was not talking to Haldor. As it was, a maid timidly approached Legolas while Gúthwyn was admonishing her nephew, and offered to lead him to the chambers that had been prepared.

As the prince was escorted to Théodred's former rooms, Gúthwyn wondered if he was aware that they had once belonged to her cousin. She disliked moving Théodred's things around, for she imagined that every time she touched them, some of his scent was lost. It always tugged at her heart painfully to think that she had never gotten a chance to say farewell to him—if only she had been able to see something other than his bone-white corpse, she would not feel an agonizing longing whenever she rode past the burial mounds of the royal family.

"Gúthy!"

Elfwine's voice, angered at not being the center of attention, rapped sharply on her eardrums and forced her out of her musings.

"Yes, little one?" she inquired.

"Papa," he ordered, pointing adamantly at Éomer.

"In a moment," Gúthwyn promised, and with an anxious curtsy to the Elves, she began walking towards her brother. Now that there was company in the hall, she tried to conceal her limp, but the bone only pained her even more.

Upon seeing her predicament, Éomer hastened to her aid. "Is your ankle hurting you overmuch?" he asked, taking Elfwine into his strong hands.

"No," Gúthwyn said quickly. "Thank you for your concern, but I am fine."

Behind Éomer, Lothíriel finished ordering the servants to assemble a large table for the guests. Cobryn assisted them at one point, reminding Gúthwyn that she had no right to even acknowledge her discomfort. If anyone deserved to complain, it was her friend—and all because of her foolish actions. Had she not let him chase her through Isengard, his leg would have eventually recovered, and he would not be forced to endure almost constant soreness.

"Gúthwyn?"

Startled, Éomund's daughter instinctively insisted, "I am fine."

"That is good to hear," Éomer said, clapping her on the shoulder. "But right now, it is time to sit down."

"Oh." Gúthwyn looked around and saw that the tables had already been pushed together and set with plates and goblets. "Shall Elfwine be dining with us?"

As if aware that the fate of his evening was being decided, the child in question gazed appealingly up at his father, his eyes widened in the perfect picture of innocence.  
"I suppose we will have to hope for the best," Éomer said dubiously, and ruffled Elfwine's hair. "Try to behave, son."

"No."

Éomer groaned. "I wish Bregwyn were available more hours," he muttered. "Beyond nursing him, she does not have much free time."

Gúthwyn's cheeks colored at the mention of the act of breast-feeding, for she had seen it being done numerous times, and was always embarrassed by it—far moreso than Bregwyn, who treated the matter so nonchalantly that Éomund's daughter seemed like a young girl in comparison. After having been exposed so many times before, she felt the familiar curls of humiliation whenever confronted by nakedness, even if it was in the comfort of her own home.

"Ah well," Éomer sighed then, breaking her out of her thoughts. "We shall have to make do without her."

"I can watch him while you and Lothíriel are exchanging news with Legolas," Gúthwyn offered. "I would not mind."

"If he starts fussing, I may very well take you up on that suggestion," Éomer said darkly, looking suspiciously at his son. "This little rascal seizes any excuse to cause trouble."

"Horse," Elfwine scoffed.

"All right, you," Éomer said. "Let us go to the table."

Gúthwyn followed her brother at a slower pace, trying desperately not to reveal any signs of weakness. Some of the guards were waiting for their king's arrival to assume their positions, yet the majority of them had already returned to their homes. Tun was one of them. She felt a small twinge of regret at the thought of her champion, but quickly pushed it aside. Erkenbrand was also nowhere in sight, though Gamling and Elfhelm as usual were present. Mercifully, Hammel and Haiweth were to sit at her side, and Cobryn would be able to secure a nearby seat.

As she approached the table, Legolas emerged into the hall, and swiftly caught up with her. "What happened to your foot?" he questioned concernedly.

Gúthwyn winced. "You noticed?"

He gave a wry smile. "I have seen many mortals attempting to conceal their injuries. You and Aragorn, in particular, are repeat offenders."

Flushing, Gúthwyn responded, "I would prefer not to draw attention to it."

Legolas nodded respectfully, and almost before she was aware of what he was doing he had pulled her chair out for her. "Allow me," he said.

"Th-thank you," Gúthwyn stammered, lowering herself gingerly onto the seat. She could detect Legolas's presence keenly as he pushed her towards the table, and let out a breath she had not been aware of holding when he reentered her vision. Her eyes followed him as he took his usual seat across from her, and only lowered when he met them.

"I trust your journey was safe, Legolas," Éomer began whilst the servants were bustling to and fro, setting steaming platters of food before them. Gúthwyn's stomach turned uneasily, disliking the various scents and the sight of the different cuts of meat. _Breathe,_ she told herself, and opened her mouth slightly so that she would not have to smell the meal.

"It was undoubtedly so," Legolas answered. "Thanks to King Elessar, the roads have long been clear of danger."

"It gladdens me to be assured of this," Éomer agreed, "for now I know that my sisters need not worry of being attacked when they travel."

He smiled at Gúthwyn, who did her best to reciprocate the gesture and ignore the sudden chill in the air. The next time she found herself on the open road, it would be at Elphir's side.

"It is certainly a welcome luxury after the uncertainty of the War," Legolas commented. "The air is no longer so hostile."

"I must admit," Éomer said, "I cannot state much on the condition of the roads, for it has been long since I left my country, as there have been many things to take care of here."

Legolas inclined his head. "I would prefer to remain at home, myself," he said, "but there are several places I call home, and my spirit is torn between them."

"I know not that feeling," Éomer replied, looking down at Elfwine in his lap. "As long as my family remains here, then that is where I shall be."

"Papa!"

"Elfwine, hush," Lothíriel swiftly admonished her son. "The food has been served, husband. Shall we begin?"

"Of course," Éomer said, and dipped his spoon into his stew, signaling that the others could start as well. For a few moments, Gúthwyn could only hear the clattering of tableware as the guests fed themselves, accompanied by a couple of requests for an out-of-reach dish. Half-heartedly she took a piece of bread from the nearby basket and broke it, but she was not hungry and did not have much desire to eat it.

"How go things in Rohan, my lord?" Legolas inquired after awhile, setting down his fork and looking at Éomer with either well-feigned or genuine interest.

"Exceedingly well," Éomer said. "We had a comfortable winter, and now are anticipating—if I might venture to say this—Gúthwyn's wedding with Elphir."

Though Legolas only glanced at her for a few seconds, Gúthwyn felt her face burning in embarrassment.

"Have the final papers been signed?" he questioned Éomer.

"No," Éomer conceded, "yet they should be arriving within the week, as we have been negotiating for months with no sign of discontent from either party."

_How oblivious can you possibly be?_ Gúthwyn demanded silently. _Since when have I ever given you any indication that I was partial to the idea of marriage?_

"Congratulations, my lady," Legolas said then, his eyes meeting hers. "I wish you the best of luck."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied, her insides twisting in shame. The prince knew fully well that she had no desire to wed Elphir. Yet though it was a horrible secret, he had remained true to his word and kept her feelings from Éomer.

Mercifully, Elfwine caused a small distraction then by flinging his food in the general direction of Lothíriel, causing some of it to land on her luckily dark gown. The king's heir shrieked in glee as she hastily tried to wipe it away, and with a mischievous grin put his fingers in the mashed potatoes again.

"Elfwine, behave," Éomer said sternly, closing his hand over the baby's fingers and pulling them out of the food. "Leave your mother be."

"No!"

As if his protest had not been sufficiently stated, Elfwine screeched angrily, waving his fists in the air and narrowly missing Éomer's chin. Gúthwyn watched sympathetically as Éomer tried to calm him, but it was to no avail. Lothíriel's face turned mortified as her son continued to yell. "I should take him to our chambers," she muttered in Éomer's ear.

"I can do it," Gúthwyn offered, hoping to put off the inevitable consumption of her meal. "Really, it will not be difficult."

Lothíriel hesitated, obviously torn between her duties as a hostess and her maternal instincts. Eventually, the former won out, and she murmured with a sigh, "I suppose that will be best."

"If you will excuse me, brother," Gúthwyn said to Éomer.

"Of course," he replied. When she had pushed back her chair and come to his side, he carefully placed Elfwine into her hands. The baby reacted happily to his change in caretaker, instantaneously reaching up and grabbing a fistful of her hair.

Smiling, Gúthwyn cradled his warm weight in her arms and kissed him before saying, "I will try to put him to sleep."

"Thank you," Éomer responded, the relief on his face evident.

"Come, little one," Gúthwyn spoke to Elfwine. "It is time for you to get some rest."

"No."

Gúthwyn left the throne room, stopping only to bend down and scoop up a few wooden blocks that had been scattered across the floor. She gave one of them to Elfwine, who promptly stuck it in his mouth and began to chew on it.

"You have been a very naughty boy," she informed him as she made her way towards Éomer's chambers. However, she did not have the heart to say it angrily, and her nephew merely laughed at her.

_Ah well,_ she thought. _Éomer will discipline him in time._

As she neared her brother's room, she saw with a nervous tremor that no candles had been lit inside. Abruptly she stopped, wondering what to do. She did not want to go back to Éomer and ask him to accompany her—that would be displaying her weakness for everyone to see, something she wished to avoid at all costs.

Her eyes fell on a torch resting in its bracket along the wall. It did not weigh much; she could carry it with one hand, but she did not like the idea of the flames being so close to Elfwine.

"Gúthy," the baby demanded, pointing into the room.

"All right," Gúthwyn conceded, and went over to the torch. Taking it from its hook, she held it in front of her, as far away from Elfwine as possible. Slowly she advanced into Éomer's chambers, wincing as she was enveloped in darkness. Her chest rose frantically up and down until her eyes became used to the dimness. Elfwine sensed her fear and clung to her, whimpering.

"Do not worry, little one," she whispered soothingly, though she was even more frightened than he was. "Let us light all the candles, and then we will be able to see…" She found that she was speaking more to herself as she went around the room, lowering the torch onto the wicks and watching with trepidation as various shapes began to emerge. "There is nothing here… you are safe, nothing can harm you…"

Once she had added as much light to the room as she possibly could, she went over to Elfwine's cradle and gently laid him on it.

"No!" Elfwine exclaimed, and used the protective bars to pull himself to his feet. "Gúthy!"

"You do not want to go to sleep?" Gúthwyn asked. "Then I shall have to entertain you, little one. Which toys do you want to play with?"

Elfwine's eyes widened at the word "toys."

"Horse," he commanded.

Gúthwyn glanced around the room, wondering where Éomer and Lothíriel kept Elfwine's things. At length she espied a small wooden chest at the foot of the baby's cradle, and crouched down to open it. The entire toy army was inside, as well as a formidable cavalry. Selecting a few of the horses, as well as a couple of soldiers should Elfwine choose to conduct battle, Gúthwyn straightened again and presented her offerings.

One at a time, Elfwine took them out of her hands, and diligently arranged them in their positions. He was concentrating so hard that the corner of his tongue poked out from between his lips; Gúthwyn had to restrain herself from laughing. She waited patiently until he had finished assembling his army, and then asked, "Which knight is the best?"

"Horse."

"Knight, Elfwine," Gúthwyn corrected him, pointing to one of the mounted warriors. "Which one is the best?"

Elfwine picked up the soldier and discarded him. "Gone!" he cackled.

"You have a short attention span, little one," Gúthwyn commented fondly.

"No."

"May I play with you?" Gúthwyn inquired, hovering her hand close to one of the horses. When Elfwine did not respond, she picked it up and moved it towards him, making clopping noises with her tongue.

Elfwine laughed. Seizing a knight, he smashed it into her horse. "Gone!"

The battle continued, and ended only when Gúthwyn's knight was spectacularly run over by all the horses Elfwine could get his hands on. Once he had thrown them all into various corners of the room, he appeared ready to settle down, and clutched his favorite blanket tightly. While Gúthwyn finished gathering the scattered army, she heard him yawning and smiled to herself, knowing that soon he would be in the land of dreams. His, at the least, were pleasant.

_Unlike mine,_ she thought gloomily, and then sighed. If she dwelt on those musings for too long, she was almost guaranteed a nightmare.

_Then again, now that Legolas is here, I doubt memories of Mordor will change my dreams._

Determined to banish those thoughts from her mind, Gúthwyn returned to Elfwine's cradle and saw that he was already bleary-eyed. "Sleep well, little one," she murmured, stroking his fine brown hair. She sang a few verses of some old Rohirric lullabies, though she had not gotten very far when Elfwine's chest began rising and falling steadily. Gúthwyn watched him for awhile, not at all eager to return to dinner.

Every time her nephew stirred, she felt herself growing more attached to him. There was nothing about him that was not adorable, whether it was his tiny feet or his delicate fingers. If Elphir was to request an heir from her, she prayed that her baby would be as wonderful as Elfwine. Though she had no desire to give birth to the child of a man other than Borogor, it would ease her spirits if she was constantly reminded of her brother's son.

Sighing again, Gúthwyn's shoulders slumped as she thought of how closer her wedding now was. Her time in Rohan was running out. Soon, she would look out from the walls of her dwelling and see the ocean, rather than the rolling fields that she loved with all her heart. She would awake each day at the side of Dol Amroth's prince, never truly happy with her life and the man she had taken as her husband. Her interactions with her family would be reduced to letters that would take weeks to arrive, by which time Elfwine would have learned a plethora of new words.

"I do not want to leave," she whispered to the sleeping infant, feeling tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. As much as she knew that Cobryn did not want to get married, she could not help but wish now that she had chosen him rather than Elphir. At least with her friend, she would not be bound to traditional wifely duties, and would not have to worry about pleasing him. Nor would she even have to leave her chambers, never mind the land in which she had been born and raised.

_There is nothing you can do about it now,_ she told herself sternly. _You gave your word months ago that you would marry Elphir; you cannot back out now, no matter how much you want to._

"Gúthwyn."

Not having expected the voice, Gúthwyn gasped and whirled around to face the door. At first, all she could see was a shadow; terrified, she backed away from it, and felt the top of Elfwine's cradle press into her spine.

"I am hardly going to do you harm," the shape spoke wryly, and as it stepped into the light she realized that it was Cobryn.

"By the Valar," she breathed, her heart still thumping wildly in her chest. "You startled me—I did not hear you coming—"

"Your dinner awaits you," Cobryn said, raising an eyebrow at her fright. "Or lack thereof."

Gúthwyn shook her head. "I do not want to leave Elfwine alone," she replied, though it was a feeble excuse. "What if he wakes up and no one is with him?"

"He will be fine," Cobryn answered firmly. "I doubt he has not awoken in the middle of the night before."

"Yet Éomer and Lothíriel would have been in the room," she reminded him, still not moving from the cradle. "He could easily see them."

"If you are so concerned, then we shall find a maid to watch him," Cobryn suggested. "You, on the other hand, cannot afford to miss a meal."

"I am not hungry," Gúthwyn insisted, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Elfwine.

"You always say that," Cobryn countered, crossing his arms over her chest. "Why?"

"Because," Gúthwyn said, and stopped. She had never told her friend the extent of how brutally Haldor had treated her; she had never told him about the agonizing hours she had spent in the Elf's tent, of how he had clawed and torn at her will until finally he had broken her. Nor did she want to—she was afraid that even Cobryn, who had never failed to stand beside her, would be turned away by what she had let happen to her. How could she possibly begin to tell him how low she had sunk, what terrible things she had done?

She was not aware that Cobryn had crossed the room until she felt his firm hand on her shoulder. "Are you not refusing food because of Elphir?" he asked quietly when she shivered.

A shadow fell over her at the mention of her future husband's name. "Whenever I think about wedding him," she said hoarsely, "I feel sick."

There was pity in his eyes, but his words were stern when he told her, "If you continue your eating habits, you will not make it past your thirtieth birthday."

The severity of the situation was great, but Gúthwyn could not begin to appreciate it when the life she had to look forward to was only one of misery. "What does it matter?" she questioned dully. "My time in Dol Amroth is hardly something I would want to draw out." She would see Borogor again once it was over…

Almost before she could blink, Cobryn had gripped her by the shoulders and was shaking her ferociously. "Listen to yourself!" he hissed, an anger that she had never seen burning in his eyes. "Do you have any idea what you are saying? How can you be so willing to toss aside your life when so many love you? Can you imagine what Éomer would go through if he learned that you were dead? How Éowyn would feel if she received a letter informing her that you had left the world? What of the children, who rely on you for a home and the mother they never had? Have you lost your mind?"

Terrified, Gúthwyn tried to speak, but he continued, his rage threatening to smother her. "I have mourned too much in my time," he snarled. "Nearly all those whom I have loved are dead—I will not let you join them! I swear, if I have to force food down your mouth I will!"

Panic seized Gúthwyn's heart. Haldor filled her mind, his pale hands cold on her wrists as he tied them to his bed. She struggled against Cobryn, choking out, "Stop it!"

"Promise," he demanded. "Promise me that you will start eating normally!"

"I promise!" Gúthwyn cried, on the verge of hysteria. Her voice hitched with tears as she exclaimed, "Let go of me!"

He released her and stepped back, but almost immediately she felt so dizzy that she could barely stand. Her body was wracked with violent shivers, causing her to shake uncontrollably as she stared at Cobryn. He, too, watched her, his eyes wide as her own. The silence hung between them until she could not stand it; she thought she would scream if it lasted any longer.

"We should go back," she whispered, and fled from the room.


	72. Alcarinquë the Glorious

**A/N:** Last chapter, I received a number of reviews saying that this story was moving at a ridiculously slow pace. Granted, you guys were a lot nicer than that, but that was the general point. I wanted to apologize for this, because yeah, seventy-two chapters is a lot for nothing to be happening.

I _am_ trying to speed things up, especially in light of all of your reviews, and I can tell you that two chapters from now, a wrench will be thrown into the story that will drastically change the pace at which things are going. I hope you guys will continue reading, because I really appreciate your reviews and they brighten my day. (Yes, that sounds corny, but that's actually how it is.)

I also wanted to touch upon the issue of Gúthwyn's personality, which many of you (rightly) feel has become weak. Her passiveness is largely due to a combination of her emotional problems and a desire to please her family, but I can assure you that she will be growing a spine in the near future, especially as she starts dealing with the people of Dol Amroth and Lothíriel.

Again, I want to apologize to everyone who thinks this story is moving too slow. I'm doing my best to start moving things faster, but I'm also trying not to lose any quality or make any stupid mistakes while I'm writing. Thank for your patience, and feel free to send me a message if you have any other concerns.

Thanks,

WhiteLadyOfTroy

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventy-Two:**  
Note regarding the astrology of Middle-earth: I got most of the information from The Council of Elrond. However, Alcarinquë was distinguished as neither feminine nor masculine, so I have chosen the former and am hoping that it is correct. If anyone has any proof to the contrary, please let me know. Additionally, the names Elbereth and Gilthoniel are listed separately as names for Varda, but I have chosen to say Elbereth Gilthoniel in the manner of the song _a Elbereth Gilthoniel o menel palan-diriel, le nallon._ The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Seventy-Two**

When Gúthwyn resumed her place at the table, Éomer took one look at her and asked whether she was feeling ill.

"I am fine," she lied, her mind still reeling from Cobryn's threat.

"Are you sure?" Éomer pressed her, his brow knitted in concern. "You are shaking."

Quickly, Gúthwyn hid her trembling hands under the table. "I am cold," she explained. "Will you… will you pass the bread?"

Lothíriel obliged her in this, and then asked, "Where is Cobryn?"

"He is looking for a servant to watch Elfwine," Gúthwyn said, her fingers shaking so much beneath the table that she was incapable of stopping them. "I did not think he should be left alone—Cobryn offered to search for a maid."

"That is not necessary," Lothíriel informed her, raising an eyebrow. "He is quite capable of sleeping by himself."

Gúthwyn flushed, uncomfortable from both the queen's reprimand and the way Legolas was watching her closely, and turned to the passage from whence she had come. Cobryn emerged not a minute later, his face devoid of all emotion.

Summoning her courage, she swallowed and called out, "Cobryn, Lothíriel says that Elfwine does not need to be supervised while he sleeps."

Cobryn did not even show the slightest amount of surprise before nodding and walking the rest of the distance to the table. Gúthwyn's throat turned dry as he came closer, and she realized that she was actually afraid of him. "You worry too much, my friend," he commented, sitting down beside Hammel. She did not meet his eyes.

_I swear, if I have to force food down your mouth I will!_

His words echoed over and over again in her mind, layered on top of memories in which Haldor watched her as she ate the disgusting meat, until she thought she would be sick. She did not dare reach for the bread, afraid that her quaking hands would knock something over and that she would throw up whatever she managed to get down her throat.

"Gúthwyn," Haiweth whispered then, her face pained. "I am bored."

A faint smile tugged at her lips. "These dinners are not very interesting, little one," she pointed out in an undertone, "but all the same we must pretend that they have captivated us."

Haiweth wrinkled her nose in distaste, but Gúthwyn was distracted by the sensation of being watched. She glanced up to see Legolas, who obviously had heard their exchange and was clearly suppressing the urge to laugh. Flushing, she stared back down at her plate. It had only one slice of bread on it, but she had not touched it since taking it from the basket and the rest of the pewter was gleaming.

"Gúthwyn," she heard Éomer say then. She looked up, and with a sinking sensation saw that his gaze was fixed on her plate. His voice was harsh as he demanded in Rohirric, "Why are you not eating?"

Cringing, Gúthwyn took the bread and tore off a small piece. "I was putting Elfwine to sleep, brother," she answered. In a vain attempt to make the conversation more light-hearted, she asked, "Or have you already forgotten?"

"No, I have not," Éomer answered tightly, his eyes narrowed at her. "But is that supposed to explain why you were not eating beforehand?"

Cobryn was watching their debate intently, obviously able to understand every single word. She could tell he was trying to catch her eye, but she ignored him. Lothíriel, on the other hand, was clearly struggling to comprehend what they were saying, something that Gúthwyn was relieved about.

"I was not hungry," she responded quietly, but nevertheless put a piece of the bread in her mouth and swallowed it.

"How can you not be hungry?" Éomer pressed her. "You never eat a decent meal, you are too thin—I can see all of your bones through your dress—do you have any idea what you look like?"

"Brother, please, not now," Gúthwyn hissed. Legolas was doing his best not to gape at them, but Elfhelm and Gamling had abandoned all such pretenses and were openly staring. Although the other Elves were conversing amongst themselves, their voices were nowhere near loud enough to cover Éomer's reprimand.

The king seemed to realize then that he had the unwanted attention of nearly everyone at the table, and gruffly said, "Forget it. Finish that bread, and be done with it."

Gúthwyn bowed her head and obediently ate another piece, not wanting to get into another argument with him. Her cheeks were flaming under Elfhelm and Gamling's scrutiny; Hammel, also, was observing her, though Haiweth seemed lost in thought and apparently had not heard a single word of the conversation.

"Forgive me," Éomer said then, slipping back into the Common Tongue and speaking directly to Legolas. "I did not mean to exclude you. How do you find your meal?"

"It is excellent, thank you," Legolas replied, glancing curiously at Gúthwyn before adding, "I give my compliments to whoever prepared it."

"I shall be sure to pass them on," Éomer said, and looked pointedly at Gúthwyn. She had not picked up her bread since the focus of her brother's speech had shifted; now, she resumed eating, though she had no desire to.

Another minute passed without event, until suddenly Éomer started and spoke. "Sister, there is something I forgot to mention to you earlier."

"What?" Gúthwyn inquired, grateful for any excuse not to have to eat.

Éomer's face was grim as he informed her, "There is another illness going around Edoras."

Gúthwyn sighed, resigning herself to it even before asking, "What is it?"

"A high fever," he explained, "which has bedridden some of the citizens. Many of them complain of not being able to keep so much as a single meal in their stomachs."

"Well, Gúthwyn," Cobryn commented then, glancing at her as if still trying to decipher her thoughts, "I daresay you shall have contracted it by your birthday."

"That will be likely," Gúthwyn agreed morosely, yet she was half-speaking to herself and had shivered at the sound of Cobryn's voice.

Legolas eyes were narrowed in confusion. "I do not understand," he said, looking back and forth between her and Éomer. "Why are you so certain of becoming sick?"

"My sister has caught nearly every disease, whether it be a small cold or something drastic, that has passed through this city ever since—ah, ever since the War ended," Éomer told him.

"I am sorry," Legolas said to Gúthwyn. "I did not realize that that was the case."

"Luckily," Éomer continued, "from what I have heard, it is short-lived."

Gúthwyn's spirits lifted somewhat at the news, for she had been taken by more than a few fevers that lasted for nearly a month before she had been able to fight them off. Perhaps this time, she would only be ill for a week.

"You should get more rest," Éomer suggested.

"With all due respect, Éomer, she already sleeps well past noon," Elfhelm remarked, smirking at Gúthwyn. "There is only so much time one can lie in bed!"

Éomer chuckled. "That is true," he said fondly, "but please"—he now spoke to her—"be careful over the next couple of days."

Gúthwyn assured him that she would, though privately she felt that it would not matter even if she avoided all contact with the people for the rest of June.

The rest of the dinner seemed to take ages to end. The dialogue remained utterly uninteresting, to the point where Haiweth began nodding off and Gúthwyn felt as if she would die of boredom, rather than a lack of food as Cobryn had predicted. Whenever she thought of the advisor's threat, she could not help but shiver; she did not look at him for the rest of the meal, and felt her heart race every time he spoke.

_He would never follow through with his vow,_ she tried to tell herself, but it was to no avail. _He was only saying that because he was concerned about your health._

_Could he not have said anything else?_ another part of her asked. _Why did he have to speak so similarly to Haldor?_

All the while, her nausea was steadily growing, until she nearly cried when she saw that she had half of her bread left. Only the memory of Cobryn snarling that he would force her to eat was enough to make her chew and swallow; without it, she would have given up without even trying.

When at last the servants were clearing away the plates, Gúthwyn excused herself early and retreated to her room, closing the door securely behind her. Clutching her stomach, she stumbled over to the chamber pot and kneeled in front of it. However, she found that she could not throw up. Despite the fact that she felt horrible, she simply could not vomit and get it over with.

At last, she groaned in frustration and stood up, going over to her wardrobe. With fumbling fingers she changed into her nightgown, and was shivering violently by the time she crawled under the covers. _Perhaps I have already caught the fever that Éomer spoke of,_ she thought, curling up and trying to ignore her protesting stomach. _I certainly feel sick enough._

The minutes gradually stretched into an hour. At this point, Gúthwyn knew, everyone had retired to their quarters, and were likely in bed already. However, she could not fall asleep. She began tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position, but the exercise was futile. With each switch the words of Cobryn echoed more forcefully in her mind, mixing in with Haldor's until she could no longer tell them apart.

Her candles were starting to burn low. She never used them when they grew less than an inch tall, for she was too afraid that they would go out while she was asleep. _I will have to change them soon,_ she thought, eyeing them nervously.

After another hour she gave up and crawled out of her bed. Her head was pounding as she went over to the wardrobe; for a terrifying moment, a wave of dizziness crashed over her, and she reeled against her drawers before gaining control of herself. Her throat was dry by the time she closed her shaking fingers around her fur cloak. The urge to throw up was overwhelming, but when she again knelt at the chamber pot her body would not cooperate.

_What is wrong with me?_ she wondered desperately. _Why can I not fall asleep and awake only when it is morning?_

She knew that she would soon have to leave her room; already she imagined that the walls were closing in on her, and that the shadows between her candles were lengthening. The space between where she stood and the relative safety of the door seemed even more forbidding in the dimness. Gulping, Gúthwyn took one last look around her chambers and decided that it was futile to remain there.

With a deepening sense of cowardice, she slipped through the door and emerged into the hallway, clutching her cloak tightly about her and trembling as she left the bright candles. Quickly she darted down the passage, not wanting to linger any more than she had to. The only time she paused was when she came to the throne room, for with the exception of Legolas the Elves had lain their pallets on the floor.

Struggling to calm her frayed nerves, Gúthwyn mustered her courage and wove her way amongst them, taking comfort in the knowledge that Cobryn was sleeping beside a nearby pillar. _If anything happens, he will come to my aid,_ she found herself thinking.

_Yes,_ another part of her said sardonically. _And you are so eager to trust him again, when he promised to force you to eat!_

_These Elves are sleeping,_ a third side argued. _You are not going to need to call upon Cobryn; nor should you have to. They would never harm you._

Even the thought of Cobryn now made her want to vomit. Clutching her cloak tightly around her, she slipped to the doors and slowly pushed one open, glad that their hinges were well-oiled and made no sound. Yet this secrecy was not enough to conceal her presence, for no sooner had she stepped out onto the landing than a tall, thin figure turned to see who it was. Her face paled, and she actually put a foot back into the hall when she recognized Legolas.

"I-I did not know you were here," she blurted out, shrinking into the folds of her cloak as his piercing blue eyes met hers. No sooner had she spoken thus than she realized she had been foolish to assume that she would be alone: he always came outside to observe the stars.

"I hope I did not startle you," Legolas said quietly, and shifted over as if to give her room, though there was space aplenty on the landing. Cautiously, she edged outside, shutting the door behind her. She did not like the idea of having a host of Elves behind her back, even though they were sleeping.

"You did not," she lied, her heart racing faster than a _Mearh._ "I just… was not expecting you."

She found herself drawing closer to where he stood, though she kept to the other side of the landing and did not dare look at him. To delay the moment she had to continue their conversation, she gazed up at the stars, noting how brilliantly they shone against the velvety black night. They often served to remind her of how dark Mordor and Isengard had been without them.

"The sky is so clear," she murmured, her words barely rising above a whisper.

"Alcarinquë has shown herself at last," Legolas commented. A strange tone was in his voice as he said this—it was almost wistful. "She is beautiful."

Gúthwyn had never heard a star described as beautiful before; nor did she recall the name Alcarinquë from anything Cobryn had told her about the constellations. She paled at the recollection of that night, but in spite of herself asked curiously, "Who is she?"

"The Glorious," Legolas replied with a sigh, his head still upturned towards the star. "Elbereth Gilthoniel created her for the coming of the Elves many Ages ago."

Elbereth Gilthoniel was not a name that was familiar to her, but she did not want to seem uneducated and did not inquire as to who they were. Instead she wrapped her arms even tighter around herself and lowered her eyes to the rolling plains, absently following the slope of the hill and thinking morosely that soon she would be far away from her home. Instead of the long grasses, she would see an endless expanse of blue, covered with ships instead of horses.

She had never been on a ship before.

"Are you all right?"

Starting, Gúthwyn glanced over to see Legolas looking at her concernedly.

"E-Excuse me?" she asked.

"You seemed upset about something at dinner," he said gently, though the words made her stiffen.

"It was Éomer," she muttered, her stomach churning uneasily as she recalled their argument. "He wanted me to eat more."

Legolas opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better and closed it. "I see," he finally spoke after a long pause.

"He is always doing that!" Gúthwyn suddenly burst out, her vehemence startling even her. "Not a single day goes by in which he does not tell me that I am too thin, and that Elphir will wonder why his bride is a skeleton! Cobryn and the maids all say this—I am sick of it! Is it not enough that I have to marry him?"

She paused, her breathing heavy and her eyes glaring defiantly in the direction of the Golden Hall. Up until now, she had not realized how tired she was of her meals being scrutinized, or how wearisome Cobryn's concerns with her had grown. Part of her was ashamed: after all he and Éomer had done for her, who was she to complain about their well-intended nagging?

"Have you told Éomer that this is troubling you?" Legolas inquired.

Gúthwyn shook her head. "It hardly matters," she replied. "In a few months I will be gone."

Leaning his back against one of the pillars, Legolas said, "You shall still be able to visit your home." It was more of a question than a statement.

Shrugging, Gúthwyn responded unhappily, "Not often. I might as well have married the prince of Dorwinion."

Legolas raised an eyebrow.

"It is a long story," she sighed, and went to sit down on the stairs. Her ankle was beginning to ache.

As she placed her foot on the top step, a sharp pain shot through her heel, and she gave a muffled gasp as she wobbled. Almost before she could blink, Legolas had leaped forward to steady her. Panicking, she abruptly sat down, and winced as she hit the stone floor. Her entire body tensed as the Elf knelt beside her.

"Are you hurt?" he asked urgently, worry lining his features.

"I am fine," she ground out, doing her best to ignore the throbbing in her ankle and the way Haldor's eyes were fixed on her. "I just tripped, it was nothing."

Her nervousness must have been evident in her tone, for Legolas nodded and moved to the other end of the stairs. She could not help but feel relieved, though the next instant was ashamed of her weakness.

"How did you break your ankle?" Legolas inquired then.

Gúthwyn's cheeks colored as she answered, "I was airing out a blanket behind the stables and accidentally stepped into a hole."

"How long ago?"

"It has been over a month," Gúthwyn said, wishing that it had healed faster.

"Is that not the one you have already broken?"

"It is," she confirmed, and sighed. "In Mordor."

She shivered at the thought of the place. It had been over four years since she had last set foot in the Dark Land—yet it felt as if she had never left it. Haldor still forced himself on her at night, making her sick with shame and hatred. She could not bring herself to eat a decent meal, and whenever she was near a meat dish she thought she would vomit in disgust.

Her mind darkened, and she found herself hearing Cobryn's threat again. _I swear, if I have to force food down your mouth I will!_ A sense of betrayal was deepening within her. Though she had never told him about what Haldor had done to get her to eat, the fact that he had unconsciously echoed the Elf's sentiments disturbed her even more. And he had grabbed her so tightly…

She was feeling sick again. Curling in on herself, she wrapped her arms around her stomach, wanting the sensation to go away.

"Are you sure that you are well?"

Legolas's voice broke in on her tormented thoughts, and she lifted her gaze to see that he was watching her closely. "I am fine," she whispered, but her body betrayed her and she became aware that she was shaking her head.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"N-No, th-thank you," Gúthwyn stuttered. "I was…" She swallowed. "N-Nothing."

He did not press her for more information, something that gladdened her. Instead, he questioned, "How are Hammel and Haiweth?"

For a moment, she looked at him suspiciously, thinking of Haldor's vow to rape Haiweth if Éomund's daughter did not please him, but then her memory cleared and she was able to say, "They are fine."

Her response was hardly adequate. Legolas waited a minute before continuing, "Did Hammel resolve his…?"

"His what?" Gúthwyn asked, and then understood: Aldeth. "No," she said, sighing again. "That boy Wulfríd is in her company nearly every day. It is almost ridiculous, because they are only thirteen, but both of them care for her."

As much as she did not want to admit it, she had seen genuine tenderness in Wulfríd's gestures whenever he helped Aldeth with her chores. Granted, she had also seen him boasting numerous times about his prowess with a sword, and once or twice even insulting Hammel, but she had a hunch that Wulfríd was interested in the girl as more than a friend.

"Has Hammel told her his feelings?" Legolas asked. Gúthwyn could not tell whether he was merely masking his boredom or if he was actually engrossed by the conversation.

"No," she nevertheless said. "I am beginning to doubt that he ever will. Nor, apparently, shall it make a difference, especially if Wulfríd eventually intends to…" She stopped just short of saying "marry," for that was rather presumptuous.

"He might," Legolas replied, "but on his own time."

Gúthwyn mulled this over. Hammel was very peculiar in his habits—yet as long as he was happy in the end, she could not say that she minded his discretions. The only thing that troubled her about him was that he seemed to be pulling away from everyone, especially her. The last few times she had invited him on a ride he had declined, though normally it pleased him enough to join her.

Nor could she shake the feeling that he was becoming more disapproving of her. Sometimes she thought it was foolish that the child she had raised since he was five could be losing his respect for her, but whenever he raised his eyebrows at her or grew angry that she was not interpreting his silences correctly, she could sense the bond between them splintering. It pained her to accept this as a fact, but had he not spurned all her attempts to mend their relationship? Had he not scorned her and accused her of spreading gossip about him and Aldeth?

It hurt her to think that he no longer loved her as he once had. Haiweth, she knew, was still devoted to her, but with Hammel it was like trying to hold onto water: utterly futile, no matter what she did. _He needs a father,_ she thought to herself. _Not Elphir—he cannot, for he knows naught of what we went through in Mordor. If only Borogor had survived, and I had been able to marry him…_

Unnoticed, a few tears came to her eyes, and trickled down her pale cheeks.


	73. A Gloomy Future

**A/N: **I'm sorry for the delay in posting this. The chapter that I was working on was a bitch (pardon my French) to write, and I ended up going back and deleting a bunch of stuff and essentially starting over a couple of times.

In any case, the next chapter is when things are really going to start picking up, so think of this as the calm before the storm.

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventy-Three:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Seventy-Three**

Well past noon, Gúthwyn emerged from her chambers and entered the throne room, yawning as she did so. Even after she had returned in the early hours of the morning, she had tossed and turned before finally falling asleep. When she had woken, her head had been hot to the touch, and she reflected miserably that she was probably getting the fever Éomer had cautioned her about.

_Just in time for my birthday—wonderful,_ she mused sarcastically. It was already the tenth of June. In three days, she would likely be throwing up everything that she managed to swallow, and would probably be in such discomfort that she lost even more sleep. _The Valar forbid that I have a birthday in which I am not sick or being forced to share Haldor's bed!_

At the thought of the Elf, she felt her stomach threatening to regurgitate its contents. It was completely useless. No matter what she did, she would always come back to him. Regardless of how many times she tried to force herself to bury the memories of Mordor, she would ultimately fail. The only thing she hated more than recalling her humiliation at his hands was dwelling on what she might have had with Borogor.

Luckily, at that moment she was hailed by Éomer, and was pulled out of her thoughts. "Good afternoon, sister," he greeted her, no small amount of amusement in his tone.

She repressed the urge to turn right around and go back to bed. "Good afternoon, brother," she instead replied dutifully. Her spirits lifted somewhat to see Elfwine perched on his lap, though Lothíriel was beside him and did not seem to appreciate her company.

"Gúthy!" Elfwine yelled gleefully, and promptly knocked over an army of horses stationed on the table before him.

"Hello, little one," Gúthwyn answered, drawing close to where the family sat. "How has your day been?"

Elfwine's face lit up, and he dove into a stream of baby talk. The only word that she understood was "horse."

"And what of you, Éomer?" Gúthwyn inquired once her nephew had returned his attentions to his cavalry.

"I just had a meeting," Éomer said, and then added, "Cobryn is looking for you."

Her insides turned to lead. What if he was intending to follow through with his threat? "Where is he?" she asked stiffly.

"Outside, I believe," Éomer informed her. "I think he mentioned something about going for a walk around the city."

"I see," Gúthwyn said, making a note not to go on the main road in the near future.

"Would you like something to eat?" Éomer asked, glancing pointedly at her figure. Before she could respond, he requested, "Please, sit," and gestured to the opposite bench. With his other hand, he waved a servant over.

Cringing, Gúthwyn obediently lowered herself onto the seat. Lothíriel's eyes blazed holes in her as she did so; evidently, the queen had no desire for her to join them.

"Yes, my lord?" the servant inquired, curtsying respectfully as she approached.

"Gúthwyn needs something for lunch," Éomer said. "I hope the hour is not too inconvenient, for she has just gotten out of bed." He smirked at Gúthwyn, who felt a wave of nausea roll through her stomach.

"It is not a trouble, my lady," the maid assured her swiftly. "What would you like?"

"I…" Gúthwyn trailed off, her shoulders slumped and her voice no higher than a whisper. She did not want to eat.

_What if Cobryn comes?_ she asked herself fearfully. _What if he really does force me to have something?_

"Gúthwyn?"

She glanced up at Éomer. Both he and Elfwine were watching her expectantly.

"I do not know," she murmured, shrugging half-heartedly.

"There is still some stew left over," the maid suggested. "It is quite good, my lady."

"That will do," Gúthwyn said wearily. "Thank you."

The maid curtsied and departed, leaving Éomer to raise his eyebrows at her. Her cheeks flaming, Gúthwyn stared determinedly at a distant painting.

"Gúthy!" Elfwine called then. A horse was flung across the table, bouncing off her collarbone and startling her as it landed on her lap.

"Son," Éomer warned sternly. Elfwine laughed at him.

"You have my attention, little one," Gúthwyn promised, picking up the animal and making it gallop back towards her nephew. His strong fingers reached over and snatched it away from her, and he chewed on it for awhile until he lost interest.

It was then that the maid returned, bringing with her a bowl of soup. "It might not be as hot as it was earlier," she said apologetically, setting it before Éomund's daughter, "but it is still good."

Gúthwyn thanked her and dipped her spoon slowly into the broth, delaying the moment she had to swallow it for as long as possible. Keenly aware of Éomer observing her, she gathered her resolve and brought it to her lips, trying not to wince as the smell drifted into her nostrils.

Her discomfort only grew as she forced more of the stew down her throat, driven by the memory of Cobryn threatening to do it for her. Lothíriel, Elfwine, and even Éomer's piercing gaze faded away as she looked at her bowl, watching in dismay as the level of the liquid seemed to rise rather than fall. For what felt like hours she struggled to keep the soup in her stomach, coming dangerously close to failing as the minutes dragged by.

At last, she could no longer do it. With a soft _clink_ she set the spoon down and pushed the dish away from her. If she ate anymore, she would be sick.

"Are you done?" Éomer asked disbelievingly as she folded her arms across her stomach. She could only nod. "Over half of it is left!"

"I am not hungry," Gúthwyn muttered.

She could tell Éomer was getting ready to berate her when he drew in a long, frustrated breath. "Gúthwyn," he began, his voice dangerously low. Elfwine's bottom lip trembled. "Why are you not eating?"

"I told you, I am not hungry," Gúthwyn repeated, shivering under the brunt of his anger.

"That is not what I meant," Éomer growled, clenching his fist, "and you know it. You have not had a decent meal for months! Why? Why are you so bent on turning yourself into a skeleton? You cannot possibly claim that you are not hungry, for it has been hours since you ate that tiny piece of bread you called your dinner!"

"But I am not hungry," Gúthwyn protested miserably. "I do not wish to eat. Please, you are frightening Elfwine."

The baby's eyes were wide with distress; he was beginning to fuss in Éomer's arms.

"Let me take him," Lothíriel said, giving Gúthwyn an irritated look.

Éomer complied, and the infant changed hands, but once that was done he glared right back at Gúthwyn. "Do not change the subject," he spat. "Answer me. Why are you not eating?"

"I told you!" she cried, seeing Haldor's eyes glittering at her as she swallowed mouthful after mouthful of the meat. "I am not hungry!"

"That is not the reason!" Éomer roared, slamming his fist on the table. "By the Valar, Gúthwyn, why are you doing this to yourself?"

Elfwine started wailing, the cries reverberating throughout the hall even though he had buried his face in Lothíriel's shoulder. Éomund's daughter could hear the few servants in the throne room muttering uneasily amongst themselves, wondering at the disturbance.

"Éomer, stop it!" Gúthwyn choked out, wanting to put an end to her nephew's suffering as well as hers. "I need to go—"

But as she stood up and stepped over the bench, a puzzled voice inquired, "Is everything all right?"

Her heart hammered wildly in her chest as she found herself directly in front of Legolas, who must have entered the hall while they were arguing. Gulping, she said, "I-I was j-just leaving."

Before Éomer could order her to stay, she all but ran from the table, hitching the hemline of her dress up a few inches so that she did not trip on it. As she went, she heard Legolas's concerned voice, but she could not understand what he was saying, nor Éomer's fatigued response. Tears of frustration and desolation were blurring her eyes as she made her way out of Meduseld: she hated it when her brother yelled at her, and it seemed that he was doing it far more frequently than he used to.

She hardly knew where she was going, but as time passed she realized that her feet were carrying her to the very place in which Théodred had taught her how to fight. Her tears dried and felt cool on her cheeks as she beheld the green meadow, a sanctuary from the crowded streets of the city. As far as she knew, no one else had been to this area in years, for the path to access it was rough and difficult to traverse.

As it was, her ankle was paining her, and she sank down onto the grass, not caring if she stained her dress. Drawing her knees close to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and trembled. It was June, and nowhere near cold, but that did not stop her from quivering, and she was utterly unable to control her muscles. Her mind was filled with conflicting images of Haldor, Cobryn, and Éomer, all of whom were shouting at her and ordering her to eat.

She was so consumed by these thoughts that did not hear the sound of footsteps upon the earthen ground beside her haven. It was only when Cobryn emerged, his figure large and menacing, that she whimpered in terror and scrambled to her feet.

"What do you want?" she demanded, backing away from him. Even if she yelled for help, the main road was too noisy and no one would hear her. "How did you get here?"

"Hammel told me that he had seen you walking around the Golden Hall," he said, and stepped closer. Panicking, Gúthwyn moved back.

"What do you want?" she repeated, on the verge of hysteria.

"I wanted to apologize," Cobryn answered quietly, "for hurting you."

Her brow furrowed, and she asked suspiciously, "What do you mean?"

He sighed. "I should not have grabbed you," he replied, "and I was wrong to speak so rashly. I troubled you more than I had the right to."

For a long time she gaped at him, until at last she managed, "That is not the point!"

It was his turn to look confused. "Then what is the point?" he at length asked, bewildered.

"You told me you would force food down my throat!" Gúthwyn shrieked at him, her chest heaving up and down with unshed tears. "Do you not remember that?"

Cobryn's eyes widened. "Gúthwyn, I said that you so that you would understand how serious I was!"

Something constricted in her throat. "W-What do you mean?" she asked, her voice wavering.

"It is a figure of speech," he spoke firmly. "Nothing more."

"No, it is not!" she screamed, nearly gagging as Haldor's tent flashed in front of her. "You are wrong!"

"Gúthwyn, what—" he began, but it was too late. Before she could stop herself, her shoulders were convulsing with the tears that were spilling down her cheeks, drenching the skin and making her cry even harder in shame. When Cobryn stood in front of her, offering both physical and mental support, she gave up and collapsed into his arms.

"H-He m-m-made me eat!" she gasped, the words pouring out of her like a waterfall of filth. "H-He tied me t-to his b-b-bed and… and told me h-he would k-k-_kill_ Hammel a-and Haiweth i-if I d-did not! And th-then I threw up a-and he m-made me eat th-that b-before he l-let me go!"

Her muffled explanation was almost unintelligible, but when he stiffened she knew that he had understood her. She was bawling now, horrified at her weakness but unable to stop. Mortified, she sobbed, "E-Every time I-I-I looked at y-you I s-s-saw him!"

"I had no idea," Cobryn swore, holding her tightly no matter how hard she shook. "I would never—that is not what I—" His voice was faltering in disgust, and Gúthwyn felt a wave of humiliation crashing down on her as she realized how foolish she had been for thinking that her friend would harm her in such a way. He had always done everything that was humanly possible to maintain her well-being; this was how she repaid him? By accusing him of something because she had not understood the intent behind his words?

"I-I am so s-sorry," she choked out, stumbling over the simple sentence.

"It is I who should be apologizing," he said resolutely. "Why did you not tell me before?"

"I-I wanted to f-f-forget about it," Gúthwyn whispered unsteadily, trying to quell her sobs. "And I th-thought you would…"

"You thought I would what?" he asked when she did not finish.

"Be a-a-ashamed of me."

He pulled away, staring at her in bewilderment. She found herself wishing that his arms were still around her, for she now felt vulnerable without them. "_Why?_"

Staring at her feet, Gúthwyn mumbled, "I just did."

"Why would I be ashamed of you for something that you were forced into doing?" he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders and shaking her a little. "It was not your fault; nothing that he did to you was!"

She closed her eyes in grief. If only he knew how stupid she had been, how she had accepted Haldor's invitation to accompany him to his tent… how she had fallen right into his trap and gone to him for information about Hammel… how she had turned around after Borogor's death and made love to the person who had utterly ruined her…

"Gúthwyn?"

Her vision was glittering as she glanced back up at him. She was barely able to distinguish the features on his face as he inquired softly, "Does Éomer know about this?"

The lump in her throat too hard to speak around, she nodded.

"Is Haldor the only reason why you are not eating?" he questioned, looking at her closely.

Gúthwyn shivered upon hearing the Elf's name, but slowly shook her head. "It is Elphir, also." she confessed, swallowing. She did not say that the sensation was multiplied a hundredfold when she contemplated the course of their wedding night; it was a topic too embarrassing for her to discuss, even with Cobryn.

"That cannot be helped now," he reminded her, though there was sympathy in his eyes. "You have given him your word."

Her shoulders slumped. "I know," she murmured, her voice heavy with defeat. "I wish... I wish that Éomer had not asked me to find a husband..."

"It is no use dwelling on the past," Cobryn said. "Your new life shall be in Dol Amroth, and in order for it to be so you must eat."

Gúthwyn's tears had slowed to a steady trickle down her cheeks, but at his words she felt them threatening to rise again. "Cobryn?" she began tentatively, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

"Yes?"

"When I go there, will you... will you come with me?"

Hammel had told her that her friend was prepared to do so, but she needed to hear it from him. When he was silent for a full minute, her face paled. Mortified that she had asked him so brazenly, at the same time terrified to think that he would let her leave Rohan by herself, she quickly tried to remedy her misstep. "You do not have to," she said, her cheeks burning. "I just thought... well, it is nothing important, really. Forget it. I should not have—"

"Of course I will," Cobryn interrupted her, causing her to stop short and look up at him in surprise.

"Y-You will?" she whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

"Certainly," he confirmed. "I have no desire to abandon my friends."

When she heard that sentiment, it was as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders. "Thank you so much!" she cried, embracing him. "You have no idea how much that means to me—I cannot begin to thank you enough—"

"You do not have to," Cobryn said. "Without you, I would not be where I am now. That is one debt I can fain hope to repay."

"You already have," Gúthwyn informed him, and then sobered. "Are you sure you want to leave? You love your job, and Lebryn will still be here..."

His eyes hardened. "I have not spoken to Lebryn for months."

Gúthwyn knew that the two of them had fought before, but only when Gamling's niece was revealed to be pregnant. The woman was due any day; she had not realized that Cobryn and Lebryn were still avoiding each other.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he shook his head as if coming out of a long train of thought. "As for my job," he continued, "I do like it, but the politics of Dol Amroth will be an interesting challenge."

Gúthwyn laughed a little. "Perhaps you should be the princess," she teased. "I think you would be better at it than I."

He chuckled dryly. "I doubt Elphir would want me as his wife. In any case, there is always time for you to learn."

Frowning at the prospect, Gúthwyn replied, "I have no desire to be involved with anything regarding politics. Will he want me to join him at the meetings?" She knew that Lothíriel attended Éomer's whenever possible, and that her brother appreciated the queen's company, but she was also aware that Lothíriel actually enjoyed the council sessions and thought them well worth her time.

"He might," Cobryn answered, and she felt her stomach clench. "Dol Amroth is very different from Rohan."

"I know," Gúthwyn sighed unhappily. "I expect the women will talk only of what gowns they are wearing, or what hemline they have, or something utterly ridiculous to that effect."

"You might be surprised," Cobryn said, his voice unusually serious. "I would take care to monitor their actions closely, if I were you. And pay heed to what you tell to what company—you never know what repercussions there could be for saying even the wrong word."

It sounded like a society that Gúthwyn would become lost in. Disheartened, she added bitterly, "Lothíriel has probably told them all what a whore I am."

"You are not a whore," Cobryn countered immediately, his gaze narrowed. "But yes, there probably will be rumors when you arrived. Ignore them, and do nothing to give them even an ounce of justice."

"Do you think I would?" Gúthwyn retorted, her insides churning at the idea.

"Not intentionally," Cobryn said. "Remember, however, that in Dol Amroth it will not be acceptable for you to train with the men. It is allowed here because all of them have grown up with you, or have known you ever since your birth, but it will be frowned upon once you marry Elphir."

"Then what am I supposed to do with myself?" Gúthwyn demanded, horror-struck. If she was forbidden from going to the training grounds, she would lose half of her day.

"Learn sewing," Cobryn answered, wincing with each word. "Or if you cannot bear that—for which I would not blame you in the least—start reading. Pick something that is discreet and will give no one reason to complain about you."

Gúthwyn pulled away from him. "Why must I sacrifice myself for a marriage that I had no desire to enter in the first place?" she demanded. "Why should I care how the women perceive me? If they believe that I am a slut, then I think that they are all fools who would not survive a single day if their gowns were robbed of them! I am not going to sew or read because it is _proper_ for a lady to do so. I will not! If Elphir wishes me to attend his meetings, fine! I will educate myself and memorize all of their rulers or whatever the instructors will have me do, but I will _not_ become someone like Lothíriel!"

A long silence followed her outburst, in which she found herself breathing as heavily as though she had just run a mile. Wedding Elphir was bad enough. If she were confined to the circles of gossiping women, she thought that she would go insane.

"Listen," Cobryn said quietly, looking her right in the eye. "Should you go down that path, you will have to be prepared for the worst sort of rumors that you will ever hear in your life."

"I have already heard—"

"No, Gúthwyn, you have not. Hammel and Haiweth alone will keep them speculating for years. They will never believe you, no matter how many times you reiterate your ages. If Lothíriel is any indicator, they will try to manipulate others against you. The gossip spreading through Rohan about us is nothing compared to what there will be in Dol Amroth. The more friends you make amongst the men, the more suspicious and jealous of you they will be. I am telling you now that even if Elphir stands up for you, there shall be very few beside him. The children and I will be three of them. But who else?"

"Why are you saying this?" Gúthwyn managed, aghast.

"Because otherwise, you are in for a shock when we get there," he said.

Gúthwyn felt as if she would break into tears again, this time at the hopelessness of her situation. "Then what am I supposed to do?" she choked out. "It seems that nothing—"

"Strike a balance," Cobryn told her. "Win over the people. You are good at that. Below the social circles that Elphir would have you in, there is a whole group of citizens who care nothing about which lord was wearing what cloak, or what lady showed up to this ball in that pair of shoes."

Gúthwyn felt only a small sense of comfort upon hearing this.

"Show them kindness," Cobryn said, "and it will be much more difficult for your companions to find fault in you."

Unhappily, Gúthwyn responded, "In his letter, Elphir told me that I would not have to worry about these things… that Dol Amroth was already used to the idea of a female ruler, and that—"

"Elphir was speaking on behalf of his advisors, not their wives," Cobryn said. "I do not doubt that there are many women there who loathe Lothíriel, whether because of jealousy or some other reason. Besides, you may be the princess, but that does not mean that everyone has to like you—that will only be the case when Elphir is present."

"Please, stop," Gúthwyn whispered. "I do not want to think about how miserable my life will be anymore."

"What I am telling you may not be true," Cobryn said. "It may be that the women will take to you and voluntarily let you into their circle. But from what we know of Lothíriel, I doubt that will be the case."

"Wonderful," Gúthwyn answered gloomily. "Rather than a marriage, I am looking forward to being thrown to the crows."

"That is not far from the truth," Cobryn agreed, and the two of them looked at each other, thinking of the long years ahead of them.


	74. Happy Birthday VI

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventy-Four:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Seventy-Four**

The night before her birthday, Gúthwyn caught the fever. All day long, her forehead had been hot to the touch; by the time dinner rolled around, she was nauseous and dizzy. The throne room spun as she lowered herself into the seat across from Legolas—it was a full minute before he became something other than a golden haze.

"Legolas," Éomer began as the servants placed various dishes on the table, "I hope you are enjoying your stay thus far?"

Gúthwyn put her hands on her stomach as Legolas answered, "Certainly, my friend. I have been using your archery range frequently."

Éomer chuckled. "Try not to intimidate my men," he said. "They are excellent archers, but I am afraid that even they are no match against Elves."

"I shall do my best," Legolas promised, a hint of a small tugging at the corners of his lips.

Éomer made a cut on his meat, signifying that the others could start. Gúthwyn selected a slice of bread, but did not eat it for fear of throwing up in front of everyone. Cobryn noticed this and gave her a sharp glance, but she was simply feeling too sick to swallow. The day after her friend had comforted her she had tried to consume a decent meal, but the beginnings of the fever had touched her then.

"Sister, what of yourself?" Éomer inquired at that moment. Almost immediately after, he asked, "Are you feeling well?"

"I think I am getting the fever," she confessed. Her belly gave testimony with a significant lurch. Hammel, who had also been looking under the weather of late, nodded sympathetically.

"Perhaps you should go to bed," Lothíriel suggested frostily. "It is not a good idea for you to be around Elfwine in your condition. I am worried for his health."

"No," Elfwine retorted, trying to grab a fistful of the queen's hair. She removed it from his reach.

Although Lothíriel had been insincere with her many times before, Gúthwyn could tell that she truly was concerned about her son. Children his age were at high risk, extremely susceptible to illness and often dying from it. Not wanting this fate to befall her nephew, Éomund's daughter had gone to extensive lengths to avoid him that day, and was even trying not to breathe in his general direction.

"If you feel sick at all, you need not trouble with excusing yourself," Éomer told her. "How are you now?"

"Fine," Gúthwyn murmured, flushing under Legolas's scrutiny. A protesting swell of nausea rose within her. "I mean, my stomach… I…"

Éomer leaned over and put his hand on her arm. "Do you want to get some rest?"

His face spun before her, making her disoriented.

"Gúthwyn?" Haiweth's anxious voice echoed in her ears.

"Do not worry, little one," Gúthwyn struggled to say, but was only marginally sure of success.

"Your face is pale," Éomer noted, and put his hand on her forehead. Gúthwyn cringed from his touch, though the damage had been done. "You are burning!" he exclaimed.

Now that he mentioned it, it _was_ rather hot in the hall…

"I am fine," she nevertheless tried to assure him, embarrassed at the attention. "Really, I can—"

She actually felt her face turning green.

"E-Excuse me," she gasped, and pushed her chair away from the table. The piece of bread she had been holding fell to the ground as she ran towards her room. Bile rose in her throat, and she almost did not make it to the chamber pot in time. The next thing she knew, she was on her knees before it, vomiting profusely. A familiar, putrid smell filled the area.

When she was done, she knelt there for another moment, her breathing now ragged and her eyes unfocused. It was a mere second or two until she heard pounding footsteps outside the door. Her entire body was shivering as Éomer strode in, followed swiftly by Haiweth.

"Gúthwyn?" she asked uncertainly, covering her nose.

Éomund's daughter cursed under her breath, trying to hide the fluids inside the chamber pot away from the child. Before she could do so, however, Éomer crouched down beside her. "Come, let us get you to bed. Do you want extra blankets?"

Gúthwyn shook her head, for though she could not stop quivering she felt as hot as if she had returned to the forges of Isengard.

"We will send for a healer," Éomer decided, and gently pulled at her arm. "Can you stand up?"

Nodding, she allowed him to help her to her feet. Haiweth watched the whole proceedings, her mouth slightly opened. Gúthwyn knew that it frightened the girl to see her so weak; she wished that the child would return to her dinner, but such a course of action was unlikely.

"Are you delirious at all?" Éomer inquired as she crawled onto the bed, her body aching and her stomach warning her that it was not yet done relinquishing its contents.

Gúthwyn shook her head, although she knew she would pass in and out of that condition in the days to come.

"Have you just been feeling ill today?"

"Mostly," Gúthwyn managed, her throat dry and a horrible taste making it almost impossible to speak. "A little a couple of days ago…"

"All right," Éomer said, his brow creased. "I shall go and find a servant to watch over you while I get the healer. Haiweth, can you stay here with Gúthwyn until a maid comes?"

Startled, Haiweth nevertheless said, "Yes, sir."

Éomer glanced back at Gúthwyn. "Will you be fine with her?"

She nodded, wrapping her arms around her stomach. Éomer departed from the room almost immediately, leaving her with Haiweth.

"How long are you going to be here?" the girl questioned, approaching the bed tentatively.

"I am not sure," Gúthwyn replied, trying to smile at her. "Please, little one, do not get too close. I would not want you to become sick."

"You let Éomer come near," Haiweth scowled, but obediently took a step back.

Gúthwyn thanked her, and shut her eyes in the hopes of quelling her tossing stomach. She did not want to throw up in Haiweth's presence; the girl had seen enough of that in Mordor. But no sooner had she vowed to contain herself than a spate of nausea emerged with a vengeance, threatening to ruin her composure.

Mercifully, a hurried pair of feet swept into the room. Gúthwyn opened her eyes just in time to see Cwene enter, a large bucket in either hand. One of them was filled with water.

"Make yourself useful and get me some rags," the maid snapped at Haiweth, who jumped and scurried off to comply. Gúthwyn smiled weakly, knowing how much the girl was intimidated by Cwene.

_I really should tell her that Cwene's bark is far worse than her bite,_ she thought.

"Now, child, when was the last time you drank?" Cwene asked, striding over and placing the empty bucket beside her on the nightstand. Gúthwyn was used to informing others of when she had last eaten; this was a change.

"At lunch," she answered after a moment of recollection, her breathing shallow. She felt as if she would suffocate from the heat.

"You better start drinking now, or you will get the heaves," Cwene told her sternly. "I expect you shall be confined here for a couple of weeks, so you better heed my words. I swear, I know of no infant more sickly than you!"

Too tired to argue, Gúthwyn nodded. She had gotten the dry heaves on numerous occasions, especially in long-enduring illnesses such as these. Her stomach would churn horribly, but it would be emptied from her previous vomiting and there was nothing to do but gag until the fit had passed. It was even worse than retching.

"Where is that girl?" Cwene muttered irritably, reaching behind Gúthwyn and rearranging the pillows. "We have rags aplenty in this place—she need not run to Gondor!"

As if on cue, Haiweth appeared at the door, panting and carrying an armful of old fabric. Gúthwyn recognized the scraps from her last sewing foray.

"It is about time!" Cwene scolded the girl. "Where on Middle-earth have you been?"

Haiweth trembled, and meekly held out the rags. Cwene took them with a sniff, and set the rest aside so she could dip one into the water. Gúthwyn gave a reassuring smile to Haiweth as the maid squeezed it out, letting the water trickle back into the container. "Be still," she ordered Gúthwyn, and Éomund's daughter complied as the cloth was placed over her forehead.

The cool rag was a welcome relief, though it lasted a mere minute before the heat returned. Cwene made her take several drinks of water while they waited for Éomer to bring the healer, but soon she felt nauseous and stopped accepting them. What she really wanted was some sleep—when she woke up, it would be her birthday—yet that was an impossibility, given her current condition.

It seemed to take an eternity for Éomer to arrive, but when he did Gúthwyn felt a surge of relief run through her. Although she appreciated Cwene's care, Éomer brought with him a sense of security.

"How is she?" her brother asked of Cwene. As he spoke, Halwend, the healer who had tended to her many times before, approached her bed.

"I can still speak," she pointed out.

Halwend laughed dryly. "That may be the case now, my lady," he said respectfully, "but in a few days I have little doubt that it shall be otherwise. Do you mind if I feel your forehead?"

Gúthwyn shook her head, flushing somewhat. The healer had taken to asking that question ever since she had once panicked at the touch of his hand on her brow. Now she only flinched, but the action was discreet enough so that he either did not notice or thought it merely a shiver. Éomer watched over the man's shoulder, his dark eyes quietly studying her.

"As I have told you several times," Halwend said sternly, "you need to eat more often. It is not pleasant to be sick on an empty stomach."

_It is not pleasant to be sick at all,_ Gúthwyn thought, closing her eyes briefly. A droplet of water slid down her temple. "I will try," was all she whispered.

"Good," Halwend commended her. "Do not hesitate to send for me if something goes amiss."

There was an uneasy, brief silence in the room. In the past, Gúthwyn had experienced spells of delirium, unable to identify people sitting less than a yard away from her. She had burned with fevers of unimaginable heights, vomiting herself dry and once or twice coughing up blood. All of this she remembered only as hazy days of pain and nausea, but even this faint recollection was enough to make her shudder.

"I am sure she will be fine," Éomer said then, clearly attempting to steer the conversation towards safer ground. "Sister, shall I bring you some food? You hardly ate anything at dinner."

"I suppose," Gúthwyn replied reluctantly, knowing that the healer's advice was correct but having no desire to force anything down her throat.

Éomer stood up and thanked Halwend for his services. Gúthwyn glanced away as a silver coin exchanged hands, embarrassed for having cost her brother so much on account of her weakness. The lump in her throat only grew more painful when she saw that Haiweth had noted the transaction. While her brother had assured her on multiple occasions that the fee was a mere trifle compared to what his other expenses were, she disliked the idea of him emptying his pocket on her behalf.

Once Éomer and Halwend had departed, Cwene ushered Haiweth out of the room and closed the door behind her. Gúthwyn tried to protest, saying that the girl was more than welcome to stay, but once confronted with the possibility of her catching the fever had no other choice but to relent. With a sigh she sank back into her pillows, resigning herself to a long stay in her bed.

Cwene remained at her side, maintaining a steady stream of discourse on the topic of various remedies. It was only when Éomer came back, bringing with him a steaming bowl of soup and a new slice of bread, that she halted in her explanation of how to control one's bowel movements and exited. Éomund's daughter was left with rather pink cheeks, which she was all too eager to attribute to her illness.

"Well," Éomer remarked upon handing her the bowl, "you seem to have once again caught the fever in time for your birthday."

Gúthwyn groaned. "An unfortunate habit," she said. "This is not the first time, nor even the second."

"Tomorrow will not be so bad," Éomer assured her. "After all, we should be getting the papers from Prince Imrahil. I am not quite sure why we have not received them already—I was hoping to examine them first—but if all goes well, then you will be the princess of Dol Amroth."

"Excuse me," Gúthwyn managed, and leaned over the bucket. Vomit spewed from her mouth: her queasy stomach had revolted at the reminder of her imminent wedding night. Éomer, thinking her illness only because of her fever, waited until she was done before continuing.

"Once the documents are signed, the only thing left is to prepare the wedding."

Gúthwyn trembled. "W-Where is it going to be?" she asked.

"The ceremony will take place here," Éomer informed her, "but your coronation will be in Dol Amroth."

"Oh," she said, and stared down at her lap. She could not imagine a more terrible occasion.

"Which leaves us," Éomer finished, "with the wedding preparations."

The bucket was starting to look tempting again. "Please," Gúthwyn begged, "it does not have to be that much. I would not want—"

"Nonsense," Éomer replied, chuckling at the expression on her face. She had never found anything less funny. "Sister, this is your wedding! Do you think I would spare any expense for such a happy event?"

"What of a miserable one?" she wanted to ask him, but held her tongue. It would not matter, anyway: with a large delegation from Dol Amroth sure to be present, her brother would want to impress them. Regardless of how she felt, it was important to show Prince Imrahil that they were eager to please their guests. Gúthwyn found herself wishing for Éowyn's ceremony, when because of the War they had not been able to afford a lavish one. She knew her sister had not minded—in fact, she had been relieved.

"Éomer," she nevertheless tried to convince him, "it is not necessary. Really. A feast would be fine—just like Éowyn had."

Éomer shook his head. "I wish I had been able to do more to celebrate that day," he said, "but you know as well as I do that we were not financially secure. I simply could not afford to do anything more than a dinner. Now that I can, I would like to ensure that you at least receive a proper service."

Gúthwyn gave up trying to tell him otherwise. _What does one day matter, anyway?_ she asked herself. _I should be glad enough that it will be in Edoras, rather than Dol Amroth._

"Well, I am going to return to dinner," Éomer said, smiling at her as he stood up. "I am afraid it will not be good for me to wholly abandon our guests. I shall return as soon as it is done; in the meantime, I will send for Cwene again."

"I do not need to be watched over," Gúthwyn attempted to dissuade him, but he merely shook his head and leaned down to kiss her on the brow.

"Get some rest," he said. "And for Ilúvatar's sake, eat some of your soup!"

Glancing despairingly at the bowl, Gúthwyn realized that she had barely consumed a quarter of the contents before setting it aside in favor of speaking to her brother. "I will try," she promised heavily, and leaned back against the pillows.

After extracting the additional vow that she would send for him should something happen, Éomer left her chambers, leaving her in frustration almost to the point of tears that he was so oblivious to her true feelings. When Cwene entered the room, Gúthwyn told her that she was trying to fall asleep, but even with the maid's subsequent silence she could not find any rest. Her entire body was burning, causing her to toss and turn miserably. By the time Éomer came back, she had thrown up three more times.

When she was finally able to fall asleep, her last thought was that if she was lucky, she might just be unconscious through her birthday.

* * *

Luck, however, was not on Gúthwyn's side. She awoke to the sound of herself choking on her own vomit. Horrified, she sat bolt upright—an action that may very well have saved her life, for the sudden motion forced the rest of the bile out of her throat. Quivering, and now drenched in her regurgitated dinner, Gúthwyn gagged uncontrollably for several minutes until she could no longer feel any liquid inside of her. All the while, her head felt as if it was on fire. 

The door opened within seconds of her finishing. Mortified, Gúthwyn cringed as Cobryn stepped in. "Is everything—" he began, and then stopped short when he saw the mess on her blankets. "Are you all right?" he demanded immediately, crossing the room in a few quick strides. "When did this happen?"

Whimpering in shame, Gúthwyn whispered, "I-I just woke up."

Cobryn's eyes flicked over her sheets, finally resting on her. "You need to get washed and changed," he said. "I will find someone to clean the rest of this. Do you want help with anything?"

Gúthwyn shook her head, not trusting herself to be capable of forming coherent speech. Cobryn stayed long enough to set up the privacy screen—she was profusely grateful for that—and then he departed, leaving her to crawl out of bed and follow his instructions. Her hands were shaking as she peeled the soiled garments from her body; so much that, when she went to wash herself, the pitcher slipped out of her hands and shattered on the floor. Gúthwyn leapt backwards, almost knocking over the screen, but her feet were nicked by the flying glass. Her breathing ragged, she surveyed her surroundings, and realized in despair that she had just wasted all of the water. There was only a single towel.

_What am I going to do now?_ she wondered, her shoulders slumped.

Mercifully, the door opened at that moment, accompanied by a string of muttering. Thinking to ask Cwene if she could bring her some water, Gúthwyn took a deep breath and tentatively called out the woman's name.

"Yes?"

Before Éomund's daughter had time to react, the maid stuck her head around the screen and tilted it in inquiry. Gúthwyn gasped in terror, snatching the towel and covering herself with it. Humiliated, cowering from Cwene's shocked gaze, she took a step back, narrowly avoiding the shards of glass scattered upon the floor.

"Child, what have you been doing?" Cwene finally asked, her eyebrows raised.

Feeling sick, Gúthwyn edged away from her again, keenly aware that she was nearing the end of the privacy screen. "No," she whispered, though it was not an answer to the query.

It was then that she heard two pairs of feet hurrying down the hall. Éomer's voice met her horrified ears as he questioned, "Sister?"

"Stop!" she shrieked suddenly. Other than the area between her torso and her thighs, she was utterly exposed. The Eye of Sauron was pressed painfully against her sternum, but she dared not remove it for fear of Cwene seeing it.

There was a loud silence, until Éomer ventured again. "Gúthwyn?" She could hear him drawing closer.

"Stop!" she screamed. "I am not wearing anything!"

Immediately, the footsteps came to a halt. "Cwene," Éomer said this time, seeing her standing before Gúthwyn, "can you get something from her wardrobe?"

"I need water!" Gúthwyn managed, trying to keep her voice steady but failing miserably. She determinedly avoided looking at Cwene.

Now Cobryn's voice met her ears. "Gúthwyn," he said calmly, "I put the screen right in front of the washing basin."

"I dropped the pitcher!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, her chest heaving up and down. She was feeling the beginnings of panic. "There is glass all over—I cannot move—"

Éomer cursed under his breath, and she winced at the noise. "Cwene," her brother began, "can you fetch some water?"

"Certainly, your highness," Cwene replied, and disappeared from Gúthwyn's sight. Éomund's daughter breathed a shaky sigh of relief, swiftly rearranging the towel so that it was wrapped around her entire body. Though this plastered vomit onto her skin and made her feel nauseous, she reasoned that soon she would be able to rid herself of it.

"Sister?" Éomer pressed gently.

"Y-Yes?" she responded.

"Do you have something to cover yourself with?"

Gúthwyn nodded, and then remembered that Cobryn had thrown a blanket over the screen so that he could not see her silhouette. "Y-Yes," she stuttered, drawing in her breath and wondering where her brother was going with this.

"May I come behind the screen?" he inquired.

Gúthwyn froze. "Why?" she at last demanded, her voice laced with suspicion.

"So I can get rid of the glass," Éomer explained. "I do not want you to step on it."

Exhaling a little, Gúthwyn shook her head, forgetting once more that he was unable to see her. "I can do it myself," she replied, and bent down to arrange the pieces in a small pile. She hissed when she cut her thumb, but the noise was quiet enough so that it did not attract Éomer's attention. Once she had finished, she pushed it to the side, all the while experiencing an increasing sensation of dizziness. There was still a puddle of water on the floor, tendrils of red swirling through it, but she could do nothing about that.

Cwene returned then, bringing the water with her. This time, she stuck her hand around the screen, allowing Gúthwyn to step forward and take it.

"Shall we go outside and wait?" Éomer suggested.

"Yes, thank you," she said vehemently, an intense wave of relief crashing down upon her, along with the beginnings of shame. Had she not just disgraced herself in front of her brother, Cobryn, and Cwene? What sort of weakling would they think her now?

When the door closed behind them she sighed, resisting the urge to curl into a little ball and bar away the world. Instead she began washing herself, shivering at the touch of the cold water. She paid extra attention to her head, for it felt as if it had become a furnace. As soon as she finished she dried herself off and took a nightgown from the wardrobe. Her cheeks burned in mortification as she recalled how Cwene had saw her naked. She would not be able to look the maid in the eyes for weeks.

Even the prospect of facing Éomer was something that made her flinch. She delayed as long as possible, folding the privacy screen and searching for a dry cloth with which to wipe the floor, but at last she was forced to give up. Hesitantly she approached the door. "Brother?" she called, her voice wavering.

"Are you done?" Éomer inquired concernedly.

She wanted the floor to swallow her whole. "Y-Yes," she said, and retreated when he entered the room. The pity in his eyes when he gazed upon her caused a lump to form in her throat.

Mercifully, it was Elflede, not Cwene, who came in behind him and started cleaning the mess near her wardrobe. Cobryn lingered in the doorway, watching her quietly.

"Are you all right?" Éomer asked softly, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Gúthwyn shook her head. "I feel sick," she whispered.

"As soon as Elflede finishes we can get you back to bed," Éomer promised, and gently touched her forehead. "You are still burning."

"Éomer—" She tried to move away. "You will catch the fever."

"I am not worried about myself," he told her. "I am worried about you. Did you just wake up?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn responded with a sigh. "I did not mean to ruin the sheets…"

Éomer waved her anxieties away. "I am worried about you," he repeated. His voice lowered as he added, "I did not mean to make you panic earlier."

"I am fine," Gúthwyn insisted, embarrassed that this conversation was being held within earshot of Elflede. "It was nothing."

"Sister, you were screaming," Éomer pointed out quietly.

"It was nothing," Gúthwyn said adamantly, her eyes fixed on Elflede as the woman removed the bed sheets. She tried to ignore Cobryn's disbelieving gaze.

It seemed to take forever for Elflede to put new blankets on the bed, but once she had done so Gúthwyn pulled them back and slid onto the mattress. Recoiling from the memory of her exposure, she drew the covers all the way up to her chin. Éomer knitted his brow at this but chose not to say anything, for which she was exceedingly grateful.

"Will you be all right on your own?" he merely inquired.

Gúthwyn nodded, wanting more than anything just to fall asleep and forget about her fever.

"Are you sure?" Éomer pressed.

Again, Gúthwyn nodded. Her brother sighed and then said, "Happy birthday."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied, a faint, cynical smile on her lips. She should have known that her day would be horrible.

"Elfwine has been asking for you ever since breakfast," Éomer informed her.

It was then that Éomund's daughter remembered that it was her nephew's birthday as well. Sitting bolt upright, she exclaimed, "I almost forgot! I have a present for him."

"That was not necessary—" Éomer started, but she cut him off, saying:

"Of course it is! Hold on a minute—"

She made to get out of her bed, only somewhat discomforted at the idea of leaving her shelter, but Éomer held out a hand to stop her. "You have already strained yourself enough today. Please, do not get up."

"I am not an invalid," Gúthwyn protested indignantly.

"Your ankle has barely recovered, and now you have a fever," Éomer reminded her sternly. "Do not get up."

Gúthwyn sighed and leaned back again. "It is in my wardrobe," she said. "I put it beneath all of the grey gowns."

"I can get it, my lord," Elflede offered with a curtsy, and hastened to do so. She sorted through the dresses for a moment before she had found it. Gúthwyn smiled at the sight of the book, but waited patiently until the maid had brought it to her brother. Éomer's eyes widened as he beheld it.

"I know he is too young to recognize the letters," Gúthwyn said, "but I figured that someone could read aloud to him."

"This is amazing," Éomer breathed, turning through the pages of the story she had created about a young boy and his horse. "Did you do these illustrations yourself?"

Over his shoulder, Gúthwyn saw Cobryn disappear down the hallway, presumably to give them some time alone. Elflede followed him not long after, her arms full of the dirty blankets.

"Haiweth did the drawings," Gúthwyn confessed. She and the girl had worked on the gift during lessons—instead of reading or writing—something that had delighted Haiweth. "You know my artistic skills leave much to be desired."

Éomer laughed. "Thank you very much, sister," he said, closing the book carefully. "I am sure he will love it."

Gúthwyn glowed, for a brief instant forgetting that she was ill.

"That reminds me," Éomer declared. "I have a gift for you, as well."

"Oh," Gúthwyn said, taken aback. "Thank you, brother, but—"

"Nonsense," Éomer interrupted her, knowing fully well what she had been about to say. "I do not have it with me, but it is a new saddle."

Gúthwyn was rendered speechless. "Oh, Éomer," she finally breathed, hardly daring to believe it. She had mentioned in passing that her old saddle had been wearing out, but otherwise had not given it much thought. "You should not have… I do not know what to say…"

Éomer chuckled at her dilemma. "Do not fret over it, baby sister. I have already purchased it; indeed, it is now inside the stables."

Gúthwyn flushed. "Thank you very much," she said fervently. "I am eager to go out for a ride now."

"Wait until you have gotten better," Éomer cautioned. "I would not want you to harm yourself on my account."

"I will try to," Gúthwyn said, already longing for the time when the fever would break.

Just then, a pair of hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor. Elflede appeared a second later, curtsying and announcing breathlessly, "There is a messenger from Dol Amroth in the hall, my lord!"

All the color drained from Gúthwyn's face. Not noticing her expression, Éomer leapt to his feet. "I will be right back," he told her, and rushed out of the room.

Once she was alone, Gúthwyn pressed her hands over her stomach. She lasted not even half a minute before pitching over weakly and retching into the bucket. Her heart was pounding so fiercely against her chest that she felt as if it would burst.

_I do not want to be the princess of Dol Amroth,_ she thought in vain. _Please, please, please…_

Her hands were twitching so much that her entire body shook as a result. Unable to stop herself, she threw up again. Panicked to the point of hyperventilation, she curled up into a tiny ball and struggled to breathe. _I am going to marry Elphir,_ she thought wildly. _I will have to make love to him and let him touch me and sleep with him and bear him children—_

She vomited. Her throat was now dry, filled with a horrible taste that left her gagging. In stark contrast, her shaking palms were almost dripping with sweat. As the minutes passed, she began to wonder why Éomer had not yet returned. Her nervousness reached such peaks that she feared she would faint from it; throughout all this, the only noise in her ears was her ragged gasping.

After what felt like an eternity, the ominous footsteps of her brother made themselves heard above her wheezing. She was beyond the point of throwing up, and could only stare in terror as his suddenly menacing form appeared in the doorway. At first, she was unable to interpret the expression on his face.

"Read this," he said tightly, and strode across the room to hand a letter out to her. He did not seem to observe her condition.

Somehow managing to grasp the parchment, Gúthwyn smoothed it out and glanced at the first sentence. Her mouth fell open, and a numb feeling spread throughout her entire body.

_Éomer,_

_With utmost surprise and regret, I must inform you that my son no longer desires a marriage with your sister, and has told me to end all negotiations on the matter._

* * *

**A/N:** Alright, I know this is mean, but it will be awhile until the next chapter is posted. I've decided to revise a chapter about our favorite queen, because I've been unsatisfied with it for awhile and I don't feel like it explains her motives very well. So, when I do update next, it will almost be like getting two new chapters. Don't worry, I'll try to finish it as soon as I can!_  
_


	75. Searching For Answers

**A/N: **As you may recall, the reason this chapter was so delayed is because I was revising another chapter, "The Justification of Lothíriel" (#42). It is quite different now, so I would definitely suggest taking a look at it. Many thanks to **Finduilas88** for being such a helpful beta!

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventy-Five:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Seventy-Five**

For a moment, Gúthwyn's mind became utterly blank.

She stared unseeingly at the letter in her hands, watching as the words turned into a blur that smeared into all corners of her being. The only thing she could hear was the beating of her heart, wild and erratic against her chest. If she moved but an inch, she would wake from this dream. A faint scrap of logic told her sternly, _You misread that sentence. What Imrahil really said was, "All we need now are the signatures of you and your sister—then, she shall be wedded to Elphir."_

Resigned to this fate, she mentally shook her head and focused back on the parchment. Taking a deep breath, she started reading again.

_Éomer,_

_With utmost surprise and regret, I must inform you that my son no longer desires a marriage with your sister, and has told me to end all negotiations on the matter. I do not understand why this is, for but a week ago he was prepared to sign the final agreement. He has given me no other reason for this abrupt decision than that he no longer believes it to be a prudent choice. I have tried to convince him otherwise, but he refuses to be swayed and has declared that he would sooner marry a commoner._

_My friend—for I hope we can remain thus—I am deeply saddened that this had to happen. I would have readily welcomed Gúthwyn into my family, and it grieves me to see her so insulted by my own offspring. She has an extraordinarily amiable character, but for motives unbeknownst to me, Elphir has no wish to wed her. I cannot explain this, though I have spent many an hour puzzling over his mood._

_I hope that this does not harden your heart towards our people. It is rare that we break our promises, and this case is the exception rather than the rule. Please understand that I spoke not a word against your sister. I think her a remarkable lady, and I am ashamed that my son would slight her in this manner. If I could alter this unfortunate event, I would, but it is not in my power to override my son's choice of whom he loves._

The letter went on, but Gúthwyn had to put it down. A series of conflicting emotions strove within her for mastery. She could sense that she was suddenly, completely free; she was no longer under the burden of becoming a princess, but even as she tried to grasp the concept it eluded her. At the same time, there was confusion. _Why?_ echoed so much in her head that at first she was incapable of other thought. She did not, could not understand how this had come to pass—how she had inexplicably been rescued.

"Sister?" Éomer's gently voice met her ears, accompanied by a hand on her shoulder.

"Oh," was all she could say.

"I am so sorry," he murmured.

It was the tiniest, most fleeting impulse, but Gúthwyn felt guilty when she suddenly had the urge to laugh. Her brother had greatly desired this union, far more so than she had; it was not right of her to mock him now that it had ended.

"I…" she whispered instead.

"I will never forgive him for this insult," Éomer vowed then, startling her. His voice was hard as he spat, "How dare he lead you on for months? Why would anyone do such a thing to my baby sister?"

"Maybe he lost interest," Gúthwyn suggested vaguely, glancing back down at the letter. Phrases such as _my deepest condolences_ and _I am terribly sorry_ jumped out at her; evidently, Imrahil had anticipated her marriage as much as Éomer had, and was equally shocked to watch it fall apart.

"That is ridiculous," Éomer growled, his eyes burning. "He was obviously attracted to you, and it was no surprise when he consented to enter negotiations. I expected better from a prince!"

His words rang hollowly in Gúthwyn's head. Why _had_ Elphir decided not to wed her? As much as she did not wish to look a gift horse in the mouth, she could not help but feel astonished. She had despaired for months that their marriage was certain—and from what Éomer and Cobryn had been telling her, it was. Yet now, whether by the grace of the Valar or some other force, she no longer had to worry about sharing the rest of her life with a man she did not love.

"That _whoreson!_" Éomer swore. Flinching, she opened her mouth, but he had gone on a tirade about just what exactly he would like to do to the offending prince. A small part of Gúthwyn was relieved that her brother was not angry with her for the collapse of the agreement, but since she had never desired it in the first place she wished that he would not expend his energy lamenting its end.

"I suppose they will not be visiting soon, then," Gúthwyn said quietly, once Éomer had paused to take a breath.

To her surprise, he did not immediately confirm this. Instead he sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and said, "I wish it were that simple. Lothíriel has been greatly looking forward to seeing her family again. I do not want to deny her that merely because her brother has angered me. And yet I have no desire to welcome into my home the man who has so grievously insulted my sister."

How could Gúthwyn tell him that she felt not offended, but rather relieved? "Lothíriel has not seen her family for years," she pointed out carefully. "I would not want her to miss that opportunity on my account."  
Éomer stared at her. "Gúthwyn," he began finally, "it is not my intent to force you to endure his company."

Privately, Gúthwyn almost wanted Elphir to visit Rohan. He was clearly ignoring her letters; if she met him face-to-face, perhaps she would be able to find an explanation for the deterioration of their friendship. Now that they were no longer in danger of wedding, she suddenly found that she could care less what happened in the upcoming months.

"I do not wish you to suffer," Éomer said gently, "not even for Lothíriel's sake. Imrahil can always visit next summer, when the hurt will be less."

Sometimes, Gúthwyn wondered how her brother could be so oblivious. "Éomer, it matters not," was all she answered. "Let Elfwine meet his grandfather and uncles. He will adore them."

"Are you sure that you are not just saying this because you are too reluctant to speak otherwise?" Éomer pressed her.

"I am not," Gúthwyn promised. "Please, do what is best for Elfwine and Lothíriel."

Éomer regarded her for a moment. "Are you sure of this?"

Gúthwyn nodded. "I am," she murmured, and leaned back against the pillows, letting the parchment slip out of her hands. All of a sudden she was so tired…

"You should get some rest," Éomer said, noting her fatigue. "I will be with the advisors, if you need me." He stood up, lingering long enough to pat her on the shoulder and say, "I am so sorry this had to happen."

Once he was gone, Gúthwyn curled into a ball beneath her blankets, wrinkling her nose at the stench of her vomit. She should have been ecstatic that she was at last free. As it were, she felt as if she had been hovering on the edge of maniacal delight ever since she had read the letter. But pulling her back from this was an underlying sense of confusion—_why_ had Elphir suddenly decided not to marry her?

She could not think of a single occasion on which she had angered him. Indeed, the last time they had met was at Éomer and Lothíriel's wedding; other than that, they had been communicating by letter, and even that had halted over half a year ago. For some reason, Elphir had abandoned their correspondence, and now he had deserted their marriage plans. No matter how thoroughly she mused upon their exchanges, she found his actions to be completely inexplicable.

However, she did not dwell on this for long. Her body was succumbing to the first fringes of the fever, and after a few moments her gaze started blurring. With this loss of vision came the welcoming arms of sleep. Gúthwyn became limp, her breathing steady and her eyes closed against the world. Her last conscious thought was that maybe, when she woke up, her birthday would have passed.

* * *

Unfortunately, her wishful thinking brought no respite. When she next awoke, she had a keen urge to vomit, and was able to hold it in only as long as it took to fumble for the bucket and lean over it. She had no clear sense of time; daylight was streaming in through the small window above, but the sun had shifted to a different position and she was not quite sure whether she had truly slept an entire day. 

Her musings were interrupted by another swell of nausea. As she hunched over, retching, she found herself instead wondering about Elphir. Words could simply not describe how perplexed she was. It worried her somewhat to think that maybe he had decided for one reason or another that he disliked her—after all, she still desired to be friends with him, and was far more eager to do so now that he would no longer be her husband.

His stony silence ever since November also puzzled her. They were certainly receiving letters from Dol Amroth, and the road was hardly difficult enough that messengers might perish whilst undertaking their task. _What have I done to offend him?_ she asked silently, trying to ignore her burning forehead. _Why does he not wish to even write to me?_

When she attempted to come up with an answer, she was forced to concede defeat. It mattered not, anyway. She wished that she had the energy to feel excited at her unexpected freedom, but whenever she tried to muster the enthusiasm her spirits were automatically deflated by the resulting nausea. _What a wonderful birthday this is turning out to be,_ she thought.

Part of her was guilty for not being more thankful. She had dreaded the arrival of the marriage papers for months; now, as a gift from the Valar, she was no longer shackled to the chains of betrothal. She should have been beyond elated. Joyful should have been too impotent a word to describe her condition. And yet, she was more shocked than ecstatic. It was almost incomprehensible that she was free.

She was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of someone knocking on the door. Straightening, she seized a washcloth from her nightstand so that she could hastily wipe her mouth. Her head swam at the sudden motion, and the room around her spun for a moment until she came back to her senses.

"Who is it?" she called, breaking into a coughing fit halfway through the sentence and nearly gagging. A mortified tinge of pink colored her otherwise pale cheeks, but she could not go back and hide the weakness that had already been displayed.

To make matters even worse, the voice that came from behind the door was one that made her tremble. "It is Legolas."

Wondering what it was that he wanted—and more than a little wary—Gúthwyn swallowed hard before saying, "Come in."

She loathed the waver in her voice, but found herself pressing back against the pillows as the door opened and Legolas stepped inside.

"How are you?" he asked quietly, shutting the door only halfway.

Trying not to admit even to herself how relieved that action made her feel, Gúthwyn shook her head and replied wearily, "I will be fine."

Legolas raised an eyebrow, but when she did not elaborate he inquired, "May I sit?"

Gúthwyn's breath suddenly caught in her throat, and she barely was capable of nodding. As Legolas drew a straight-backed chair closer to her bed and sat down in it, she felt a resurgence of her previous nausea.

The silence was broken when Legolas spoke, "Happy birthday."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened, and her shoulders slumped. "I thought it was already the fourteenth," she responded, crestfallen.

"It is still the thirteenth," Legolas corrected her, looking somewhat puzzled at her reaction.

Flushing, Gúthwyn stammered, "W-Well, thank you. I was not aware… I thought I had slept through the rest of it." She should have known that she would not be granted that clemency.

"You seem disappointed," Legolas remarked, his shrewdness all too close for comfort.

"It is nothing," Gúthwyn managed: her face had suddenly turned white. She did not have time to excuse herself before her stomach turned over, luckily regurgitating into the bucket rather than on her sheets. She choked after she was done, a sign that her belly was close to—if not—empty.

"Do you want me to send for Éomer?" Legolas offered, watching her concernedly. "He asked me to inform him if things worsened."

"No, I am all right," Gúthwyn answered firmly. "Éomer does not need to be troubled anymore on my account."

Legolas smiled grimly at this, knowing well her reluctance to seek the help of others. He did not seem at all inclined to believe her, but mercifully dropped the subject. "Elfwine was demanding to see you earlier today."

Gúthwyn's heart nearly melted. "I wish I could be with him," she said wistfully. "It is his first birthday today."

"I do not think he knows what that means," Legolas assured her wryly. "He was very surprised to receive so many toys."

Sighing, Éomund's daughter murmured sadly, "Would that I had been there." Already she missed her nephew, and it had only been one day since she had seen him last. Whenever her eyes fell upon him, the entire world seemed to become brighter.

"Do you believe you shall recover soon?"

"No," Gúthwyn said morosely. "I am usually in bed for two to three weeks."

"Surely—" Legolas began, looking shocked, but at that moment her stomach contracted, and without further warning she was forced to lean over the bucket and retch. This time, only a minute amount of liquid spewed forth. Severe pain spread throughout her entire torso as she experienced her first dry heaves in over a year. She found herself praying that something would come up, if only to end her discomfort, but nothing did.

When she was at last done, she feebly wiped her lips with the washcloth, grimacing with each motion. She despised how weak her fever made her appear, especially in front of the Elf who bore such an uncanny resemblance to Haldor.

At the thought of her tormenter, she closed her eyes against the subsequent wave of nausea, but when she opened them it was Legolas gazing at her skeptically.

"Are you sure you do not wish for me to find your brother?" he asked.

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to say no, but her throat was too dry and her lips moved silently until she had swallowed enough to speak. All the while she could not help but shudder, for the taste of her vomit was horrible, and she could hardly stand it. "No," she finally choked out, her voice hoarse and croaking almost beyond recognition.

"At the very least, let me get you some water," Legolas said.

As much as Gúthwyn did not want to admit it, she knew that she would greatly appreciate the gesture. Her motions were reluctant as she nodded. Once she had done so, Legolas rose; he promised to return swiftly before exiting her chambers. The tension lifted, and she gradually relaxed back into her pillows. Her hand was trembling, but after she hid it under the blankets there was nothing else she could do to cure it.

All too soon, Legolas came back, bringing with him a small container of water. She felt a twinge of nervousness when he held it out to her, which increased tenfold as she shakily reached out to receive it. As he relinquished it, their hands brushed against one another's. The touch of his smooth skin against her palm made her jump; half of the water spilled onto her lap, and the rest nearly followed suit as she cried out in dismay.

"I am sorry," Legolas apologized immediately, lowering his arm quickly after. Gúthwyn's face turned pink with embarrassment as she folded the soaked blanket over, relieved that the rest of them had not become wet.

"I-It was my fault," she confessed shakily, inwardly cursing herself for her weakness. She desperately wanted to think up an excuse, but her mind had turned blank and she knew that Legolas would never believe it.

In order to delay conversation and cure the awkward pause, she tipped her head back and drained the mug. The water trickling down her throat was a cool delight, though she finished it just as quickly as she had started and was left almost thirstier than before.

"Thank you," she managed when she was done, resisting the urge to massage her neck.

Legolas inclined his head. "If you need any more, let me know."

She flushed at this undeserved kindness and thanked him again. Her cheeks were flaming. Even after she had treated him so terribly, he still insisted on helping her whenever he so much as guessed her unhappiness. She did not understand how this could be; she had all but given up on Lothíriel when the queen had insulted her. Yet had she not behaved far worse to Legolas, especially in front of others? No matter how often she had scorned him and turned him away, he had refused to lower himself to her level.

"Gúthwyn?"

Starting, she realized that she had been ignoring her benefactor. Another wave of shame swept through her.

"I am sorry," she instinctively said, forgetting their agreement. "It is just… I have not earned your… c-compassion."

Legolas shook his head. "You have," he replied, "though not for reasons you would like to hear, I am afraid."

Again, Gúthwyn blushed, recalling their conversation over three years ago when he had acknowledged his pity for her. She did not want this _pity_; she was sick of it, sick of everyone treating her as if she were some fragile creature, about to break at any moment.

"My father," Legolas began then, taking her from her thoughts, "always told me to behave unto others as you would have them behave unto you; for though the favor might not be returned, there will come a time when you will be grateful that you did so."

Gúthwyn could not imagine Legolas ever being glad that he had tolerated her, as it was still an accomplishment for her to carry on a normal dialogue with him.

"My uncle said that I should extend your father's courtesy to my elders," she replied quietly. "I wish I had listened to him."

She did not like to think of how she had mocked Théoden in the months preceding his death, how she had truly believed until the last days of his life that he had allowed her to be captured by the hunter. To have permitted Haldor to twist her mind in such a manner… and how easily she had let it happen! Éowyn would never have succumbed to the Elf's mutters, his hot breath and his hands as cold as death. She would have stood against him, valiant and courageous no matter how much he forced her to endure. It was Gúthwyn who had failed, Gúthwyn who had fallen.

"Do not berate yourself," Legolas said then, in response to her earlier statement but almost as if he had read her thoughts, "for what Haldor told you in Mordor—nor that you listened to him. It was not your fault."

_Yes, it was._ "You know next to nothing about my time there," Gúthwyn woodenly pointed out.

"No," Legolas agreed, "I do not. But I have heard—and seen—enough."

Gúthwyn sighed, all too aware of how wrong he was. Her eyes met his, yet before long she was forced to look away: her stomach had clenched again, and this time she was able to vomit liquid rather than experience the dry heaves.

_Please, let this be over soon,_ she prayed, though the reality of nearly a month spent in bed was looming above her. This stage was only the beginning, and compared to her other fevers was not even that bad. She hoped this meant that she would soon recover.

For now, however, the bucket was almost full, and she would have to wait until one of the maids returned before it could be emptied. Vowing to try harder to hold it in next time, she drew the blankets farther over her and briefly glanced at Legolas.

"Shall I leave you?" Legolas inquired. "Would you like some rest?"

Gúthwyn shook her head, knowing that rest would inevitably lead to nightmares. "No, thank you," she whispered, resigning herself to his company. It was better to suffer his presence than to be alone; it was then that the ghosts of her past would return to haunt her. The deaths of her loved ones… the nights she had spent in Haldor's bed… She shivered, trying to banish those thoughts. She had paid heed to them far too long.

An awkward silence fell, in which Gúthwyn's mind turned to Elphir again. She suspected that Legolas was avoiding the topic out of respect; after all, he must have heard about it by now. A flush of shame crept over her cheeks, for he and Cobryn were perhaps the ones most aware of how little she wanted to marry the prince. Neither of them had ever reprimanded her for it—Cobryn knew her reasoning, yet she had not satisfied what must have been a deep curiosity on Legolas's part.

She and the Elf must have been thinking of the same person, for he took a deep breath and ventured, "I am… sorry about Elphir."

Gúthwyn smiled wryly. "Do not be," she told him. "I doubt I would have enjoyed my duties as a princess. The responsibilities always seemed dull and tedious."

A faint grin tugged at Legolas's mouth when he heard this. "It is not so bad," he replied, "although mayhap it is different for princesses."

Nodding emphatically, Gúthwyn said, "The dresses alone make it a thousand times worse."

Legolas snorted. "I will admit, they do seem rather excessive," he agreed. "I often cannot begin to imagine how one would walk in them without tripping over something."

"It is a talent that I never acquired," Gúthwyn confessed, remembering a particular occasion on which she had humiliatingly demonstrated that fact. Her brother had convinced her to wear a formal gown with a long train a couple of years ago; she had tripped whilst walking up the stairs, and torn such a large hole in the fabric—not to mention slammed her nose so hard that it bled all over the steps—that it was rendered unusable.

"You seem to get along fine," Legolas remarked.

"That is because I wear only simple clothing, compared to Lothíriel," Gúthwyn said. "I have neither the capability nor the patience to wear anything with frills, laces, or corsets."

"Corsets strike me as being nothing more than willfully cutting off your air supply," Legolas commented dryly. "I mean no offense to the queen, but I have never understood why so many women of her status have suffered thus for the sake of appearing an inch or two thinner."

"I am afraid that I cannot answer your question," Gúthwyn said, shrugging. "I did not see them in Meduseld at all while I was growing up. Éowyn would have burned one rather than don it."

A fond smile crossed her face as she spoke. She was hoping that she would reunite with her sister soon—far too much time had passed since their last meeting.

"If you do not mind my asking," Legolas began hesitantly, his voice breaking into her thoughts, "do you know why Elphir did not wish to continue the negotiations?"

Sighing, Gúthwyn informed him that she was at a similar loss. "He has not even written to me since November," she said unhappily. "I cannot come up with a single thing I might have done to offend him—I assure you that I have spent many hours puzzling over it—and I rather miss our correspondence."

"Did others caution him against the marriage?" Legolas inquired.

"Prince Imrahil certainly did not attempt to dissuade him," Gúthwyn answered. "He said he was ashamed by Elphir's actions, but could not dictate to whom his son should give his heart. Nor would his council disapprove of his choice, for I expect it was they who first proposed the idea."

Legolas nodded thoughtfully. "That is rather odd," he replied, "although I am aware that you did not want…" It was almost too unseemly to put into words.

"No," Gúthwyn agreed, swallowing. Her throat was sore. "I did not."

"Do you think Éomer will want you to marry again?"

Gúthwyn's eyes widened in horror. She had not even contemplated so loathsome a possibility. "I pray not," she whispered, paling. "He cannot! There is no one left for me to wed!"

_Cobryn—Elfhelm—Gamling—_

"I am sorry," Legolas apologized as her hands slid to her stomach. "I did not mean to cause you worry."

"Do you think he will?" she found herself asking anxiously, twisting her fingers.

Legolas appeared to regret more than ever having broached the subject. "It was not my intent to make it seem as if that is the case. I doubt he would find it prudent to look for a husband so soon after Elphir."

Gúthwyn felt only mildly relieved at this. Who knew what her brother would do, depending on the advice of his counselors? Would he truly believe it so necessary for her to find a spouse that he would commence the meetings again?

Her terror must have shown more clearly on her face than she thought, for Legolas said softly, "Please, do not pay heed to my words. I was not considerate of the situation."

Gúthwyn bit her lip and did not respond. Nausea was beginning to creep over her; she did not think she would be able to stand another search. She did not want to spend the rest of her life—well, until she came to the age where marriage was no longer a reasonable option—cowering under the fear that Éomer would force her to wed a man she did not love.

"Forgive me," Legolas murmured, and pushed back his chair. "I should—"

"Wait!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, cutting him off and surprising both of them equally. After taking a deep breath to compose herself and wipe her brow, she continued, "You are not heeding our agreement, and you do not have to leave. I do not mind the company."

"Are you sure of this?" Legolas questioned, not having fully left his seat but not yet lowering himself back into it.

Gúthwyn nodded, reminding herself that she really did prefer the presence of someone to passing the hours alone. Legolas settled back into the chair, causing small tremors to run through her. _He is not Haldor,_ she told herself, and repeated it like a mantra. _He is not Haldor. He is not Haldor._

Surprisingly, she found that Legolas remaining with her was not as much cause for worry as she had believed. Their conversation turned to memories of their childhood, something that she did not mind as long as Théodred's name was not mentioned often. Though she still threw up now and then, by and large she was feeling more comfortable than she had earlier.

Legolas stayed with her well into the afternoon, when at last Éomer came to check on her. Upon his arrival, a sense of security settled down upon her, and she was able to succumb to the sleep that she had greatly desired. Nearly four hours went by until she awoke again, her fever worse and her nausea so great that she vomited within seconds of opening her eyes. The rest of her birthday passed in a blurry haze, interrupted only when she tried unsuccessfully to swallow some broth and keep it in her stomach.

As darkness fell over Edoras, she entered the land of dreams, and there was joined by Haldor.


	76. Delirious Murmurings

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventy-Six:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me. **NOTE:** The medical care in this chapter will seem dubious at best, but unfortunately for the patients, that's how it was back then.

**Chapter Seventy-Six**

It was a knock on the door that drew Gúthwyn out of her misery. All day long she had passed in and out of consciousness, retching profusely whenever she tried to eat something. Her head was burning, and though she had thrown off all of her blankets she still tossed and turned uncomfortably. Elflede had given her a large number of rags to place on her forehead, but they had lost their coolness within minutes.

At the sound of someone rapping on her door, Gúthwyn stirred and called out, "Who is it?"

Although her groggy voice was hardly above a whisper, Cobryn evidently had excellent hearing, for the next moment she heard her friend replying, "It is I, Cobryn."

"Come in," she replied, struggling to push herself into a sitting position. The door opened before she could achieve her goal, and the first thing he did was warn her not to exert herself so hard.

"You have only been confined to bed for four days," he reminded her. "It will get worse."

Gúthwyn groaned. "I know," she said listlessly, taking the rag draped across her forehead and dipping it into the water again.

"How are you, then?" Cobryn inquired, sitting down in the chair beside her.

"It is so hot in here," Gúthwyn murmured, putting the cloth back on her brow. It did little good.

"Soon, you will be saying that it is too cold," Cobryn remarked, alluding to the chills she had so frequently gotten.

Gúthwyn nodded and declared, "At least that will not be so unbearable. I feel as if I am burning!"

Her stomach revolted then, and she vomited into the bucket. Hardly anything came out; she knew she had to eat more, but only grew queasier at the thought.

Too accustomed to her throwing up to even blink, Cobryn folded his arms across his chest and said, "Lebryn's wife has given birth."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened, and she nearly missed her mouth with the washcloth. A sick rush of shame swept through her as she recalled how she had witnessed the two of them making love. "S-She did?" she croaked out.

"Today," Cobryn confirmed. "It is a daughter."

"Th-That is wonderful," Gúthwyn stammered. "How is she?"

"Both the mother and the child are doing well," Cobryn answered. "I have not spoken to or seen Lebryn. I presume he is with his family."

Even now, there was an undercurrent of disapproval in his words. Gúthwyn averted her gaze from him and stared down at her lap. Part of her wondered how good a parent Lebryn would be—never mind Gamling's niece. She felt sorry for the child, who unless circumstances changed would grow up in a household where the mother and father constantly argued.

"I would like to see her," she nevertheless said softly. "I am sure it is a beautiful baby." If Lebryn's looks were at all reflected in his daughter, that would most certainly be the case.

Cobryn shrugged, a rather foul expression on his face. "I only hope he is ready to be a father."

Although Gúthwyn was inclined to doubt that that was true, she held her tongue, not wishing to speak ill of someone she still wanted to consider her friend. Instead she sighed and asked, "Has Éomer yet written back to Imrahil?"

"He is in the process of doing so right now," Cobryn responded, his eyes meeting hers. While he spoke, Gúthwyn changed rags again, still feeling as if she had been set on fire. "It is to my understanding that his words will hint at no small amount of displeasure with his son."

"He need not be unhappy," Gúthwyn said, though she would never tell Éomer this. "For, even if inadvertently, he has saved me from a life of obedience and misery."

"I doubt you would have found it convenient to be dutiful at all times," Cobryn joked, making her smile tiredly.

"That may very well have been the case," she replied. "I am just glad we did not have to find out."

The heat was making her increasingly uncomfortable. She wanted to roll over on her stomach and spread out, but that would hardly be convenient when speaking to her friend. In an effort to at the very least change her position, she sat up straighter and fanned herself, though she could not escape the fact that she was becoming more nauseous by the minute.

"Shall I get more water?" Cobryn asked, detecting her discomfort. Gúthwyn did not want him to go out of his way, but as her queasiness swelled she nodded stiffly. He promised to return quickly and departed, leaving her alone and half-wishing that she had not asked the favor of him. Leaning back against her pillows, she closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was not sick, yet such a fantasy was ruined a moment later when she had to vomit into the bucket.

Cobryn came back while she was nearly gagging on the leftover bile, making his offer of water a welcome relief. She drank it eagerly, cleaning her throat of the terrible taste and smiling as the burning sensation was temporarily lessened.

"It will be over in a few weeks," Cobryn reminded her.

Gúthwyn nodded, feeling that the time would not come soon enough.

* * *

"Gúthwyn." 

Someone was calling her, drawing her out of the bleary haze she had been trapped in for what seemed like an eternity. Éomund's daughter moaned, trying to curl into a ball, but her body refused to cooperate. She was too weak to even vomit—indeed, what did she have left to throw up? She had not eaten for days…

"Gúthwyn?"

"Who is it?" she attempted to ask, but all that came out was a slur. Nothing more than a foot in front of her was visible; it was a never-ending fog, one that made her eyes swim every time she gazed into it. She wanted to go to sleep…

"Gúthwyn, it is I, Éomer," the voice said, and she stirred.

"Éomer?"

She got less than a syllable out before something stuck in her throat. Pain wracked her limbs as she began coughing violently, incapable of stopping herself. Again she struggled to move, but it was as if she were attempting to slog her way through a river of mud. The longer she choked, the more she thought she would truly die—just as she had last time, and the time before that—

Arms grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her over so that if she needed to retch she could do so onto the sheets. Gúthwyn whimpered as she was jolted, but luckily she did not see any scarlet blotches forming on the fabric. Éomer held her until she was done, and then let her roll over on her back again. She flinched when the light met her eyes. "Make it go away…" she begged.

Her brother said something in response. His words were so slurred that she could not understand him at all. Moaning, she tried to spread out her limbs, but it was like lifting lead.

"Sister, Hammel has the fever."

The sentence slid in and out of her mind, now terrifyingly clear, now so distorted that she was unable to make sense of it. When at last she thought she knew what he was saying, her heart beat rapidly. "Hammel," she croaked out. Her child… "H-H-H—"

Her mouth was too dry. She had to sit up, had to take care of him. She could not move… No, something was stopping her, something pressing onto her shoulders.

"Stay still," Éomer ordered her. "He is bedridden, but he is not throwing up that often. There is nothing you can do for him."

Nothing… no, surely something, something to be done… nothing was failure, she had failed. _You are pathetic,_ the voices mocked her, and for an instant she was back in the cage, trapped, everything dark—

She did not realize that she was groaning until nails dug into her, crying, "Gúthwyn!" Nay, it was Éomer, and the calloused hands were hurting her. She could see only them; they were the only things that penetrated the fog… Borogor swam in and out of her vision, maggots streaming down his face, which was growing longer and narrower and crueler…

Her body contracted. Spasms wracked her limbs as Éomer merged with Haldor, both of their fingers clutching at her, hot breath on her face and neither of them listening to her pleas. "Stop," she begged, choking, blind to what was happening. Everything was black, and Haldor was stroking her stomach. Something was trickling down her legs and Hammel still had the fever. _No,_ she told herself, _think straight,_ but Haldor's crooked smile invited her to join him…

A thousand denials exploded from her; she was shrieking, screaming, sure of nothing being heard. _No_ repeated over and over, until only _no_ and Haldor were left. The Elf was ignoring her, he did not listen—Hammel was lying on a bed, pale and sweating, and she was here not helping him—no matter how much she cried out, there was still the sensation of a body lowering itself onto her, into her.

Rivulets of blood were streaming down her back, for Hammel, and this time Borogor held the knife, his mocking laughter echoing in her ears until she was shrieking in agony. He was behind her, inside of her… more humiliation, unendurable, all from the man she had loved… _I still love him…_ How could she love him if he was doing this to her? But then the strands of hair that entered her view were golden, and Haldor's voice hissed to her in the dark…

She did not know where Éomer had gone. She was alone. Now was the time to find Hammel—Haldor was pulling her back, yet Hammel was her child, her baby. She was torn between the two of them, ripping into shreds… she was drenched in blood, all of the blood she had given, all of the blood she had taken. It filled her mouth, making it impossible to breathe. She could not, she would not, she wanted to die…

Terrified cries and howls echoed all around her. They were the ghosts of the dead, and she was coming to them… Hammel was fading, his frame limp upon his bed, his eyes staring accusingly at her and saying _You failed! You are not my mother—I hope you die for what you have let happen to Haiweth!_ Éomund's daughter was powerless as the girl fell beneath Haldor, sobbing and begging for Gúthwyn to save her, but no help came.

And then there was Borogor, and he was going, gone, gone… she was intermingled with him, their palms and lips pressing together so that they could never be separated again. They had left the children behind, and she had to rescue them… No, they were already dead, Haldor had killed them. He had killed Beregil. Dîrbenn. Everyone. Everything. Her, Borogor. The darkness was sweeping over her, crushing her in a tidal wave of hideous guilt and filth.

There was no escape.

* * *

"We should leave." 

The reproachful words echoed in Legolas's head, but he knew Raniean all too well to think that his friend was angry with him.

"You always say that a mere day into our visit," he pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"It has been a week," Raniean retorted. Beside him, Trelan's gaze darted back and forth between the two of them. They were seated at a table in the far corner of the throne room, none of them wanting to intrude on Elfwine's feeding session—or get anywhere within range of the child's arm. For her part, Lothíriel did not particularly seem like she wished to converse with anyone. "The woman is sick; they have enough on their hands."

"The _woman_ has a name," Legolas reminded his friend for what must have been the hundredth time. Part of him was exasperated that Raniean could not be troubled to even pretend that he was remotely interested in the concerns of his host. However, when he compared the Elf to Gúthwyn, who had shunned him for months, he could not rightfully find fault in his actions.

"As much as I hate to admit it, Raniean may speak the truth," Trelan confessed, earning a momentary jesting glare from both of them. "The king is quite busy."

Legolas nodded. "I know," he replied. "Yet it does not seem to me prudent to leave them without offering any aid. It grieves me to see Gúthwyn so afflicted."

Only five days had passed since Gúthwyn had been confined to her bed, and already she was half-delirious. While on her birthday she had been able to talk to him, according to Éomer she had now lost that capability. The healer had become all but a permanent fixture at Meduseld, worriedly attending to the king's sister for hours on end. New lines seemed to form on his face with each visit.

"There is nothing you can do for her," Raniean answered. "She is too sickly, and like as not she shall die if something worse comes around."

Though they were speaking in their own tongue, and the only person who might have learned Sindarin as a child was engrossed with feeding her stubborn son, Legolas said warningly, "Raniean!"

His friend stood his ground. "I am stating a fact," he responded. "If we depart now, we can let her family take care of her. The sooner we return home, the happier your father will be."

Legolas smirked at this. "That is certainly true," he said. "But it is not in my nature to abandon someone who is so ill, especially if they are a companion of mine."

"How you can call a mortal your companion is beyond me," Raniean commented, shaking his head. "Aragorn was barely tolerable, though I shall never forgive you for the Dwarf."

Fully aware that his friend was only half-joking, Legolas answered, "If ever you made an effort to know them, you would find that your prejudices have no basis in fact."

"I doubt it," Raniean said dismissively. "We have been over this before—I see no reason to discuss it here."

"Did you hear that?" Trelan asked suddenly.

Out of natural instinct, Legolas froze, his ears listening for even the tiniest noise. His keen sense of hearing had saved his life more than once in Mirkwood, for to be caught off-guard in the forest that was his home meant almost certain death. Even now, after the shadow of Dol Guldur had been lifted, there were still some wayward spiders eluding capture.

And then, quiet enough so that at first he was unsure of it, gradually growing louder until his eyes widened in recognition, a low moan echoed from the direction of Gúthwyn's chambers. Legolas glanced at the passage leading to her room, but of course he could see nothing.

There was another groan, this time heard by everyone in the hall. Lothíriel started, looked once at the offending area, and turned her attentions back to her son. Elfwine, however, did not want to be fed anymore.

"Gúthy!" he demanded, reaching out to where his aunt lay. "Gúthy!"

"Elfwine, hush!" Lothíriel ordered, her cheeks bright pink as some of the servants watched them in mild amusement.

"No! Gúthy!"

Even Elfwine was not enough to cover up Gúthwyn's cries. They faded for a moment and then returned, each syllable now laced in terror.

"Do you know what is happening?" Trelan inquired, his brow knitted in confusion.

"She might be delirious," Legolas said, though in truth he had seen her in that state before, and she had always been subdued.

It was then that a burst of screams pounded at their ears, each one hoarse and cracking. The servants muttered amongst themselves before one of the younger boys ran towards the source of the sounds; some of the maids seemed on the verge of panic. Elfwine buried his face in his mother's neck and sobbed, trying to keep himself from hearing the terrible noises. Hardly aware of what he was doing at first, Legolas leaped to his feet.

The shouting continued, and the son of Thranduil found himself taking another step closer to where Gúthwyn was. Trelan also rose, though Raniean remained firmly seated. "Do you think she hurt herself?" the former questioned in a low tone.

Legolas shook his head. "She is afraid of something."

Afraid was not a strong enough word; nor was terrified. Her guttural screams were rank with unnatural horror, the voice of what he had so often seen in her eyes. Everyone in the hall seemed frozen, listening to the noise and dreading what might be happening behind the doors of their lady's room.

Just then, the young servant came into their view. He did not stop when Lothíriel demanded to know what was happening. Tossing a brief reply in Rohirric over his shoulder, he dashed through the hall and out the doors. He must have been told by Éomer, who had been tending to Gúthwyn for the past half hour, to find the village healer.

"I am going to see if there is anything that I might do to help," Legolas muttered to Trelan. "Excuse me."

Without another word he strode in the direction of Gúthwyn's chambers. He could not sit while his friend—even if such a status was only tentative—suffered; he was determined to something to aid her.

_Perhaps we _should_ leave tomorrow,_ he thought as he entered the passage. Although Raniean's opinions regarding the matter were highly biased, Éomer did have enough to worry about. What aid could he possibly render to the king?

Gúthwyn's moaning grew louder as he neared her chambers, and then abruptly ceased. This worried Legolas more than anything; he quickened his pace as Éomer's voice met his ears, repeating his sister's name over and over again. Once he reached his destination, Legolas lifted his hand and knocked on the door. "My friend, it is Legolas," he called. "What is happening? Is Gúthwyn injured?"

The door opened a few seconds later, revealing Éomer's anxious face. "You can come in," he said, and stepped aside so that Legolas could enter.

"Is she delirious?" Legolas inquired, just before he followed the king.

Éomer's dark eyes fixed on his. "I think you should see for yourself," he said, and with that opened the door the rest of the way.

Legolas's breath caught in his throat as he beheld Gúthwyn. She lay sprawled across her bed, tangled in the sheets as if some greater force had seized her and violently shaken her. Her blue eyes were staring unseeingly at both him and Éomer, marking neither their presence nor her surroundings. Her hair spilled in wild tangles around her flushed face, and her chest was moving unsteadily up and down. Low, croaking groans escaped her shriveled lips; now and then she feebly stirred.

"She does not know who I am," Éomer explained, going over to the nightstand and dipping a cloth into the water bucket that had been set there. "I doubt she can hear me, either."

"Why was she screaming?" Legolas asked, drawing closer. Gúthwyn's head twisted fretfully; Éomer whispered something to her in Rohirric, and she was stilled.

The king's face was grim as he tenderly laved his sister's brow with the water. "She may have been having a nightmare, though I cannot see how that would be, for her eyes were open."

It was not very difficult for Legolas to imagine what Gúthwyn might have been dreaming of. He sighed and then responded quietly, "I think we will be leaving tomorrow."

"Are you sure?" Éomer asked, glancing up at him.

Nodding, Legolas said, "We have taken advantage of your hospitality for far too long, and it is not right for us to intrude while Gúthwyn is in this condition."

"Not at all," Éomer was swift to argue. "Now that the War is over, we do not get many visitors. We are more than glad to have you here."

Although the words were heartfelt and not falsely spoken—the Rohirrim were noteworthy for their honesty—Legolas was more resolved than ever not to inconvenience his host further. "Thank you for your kindness," he replied. "Rest assured that my companions and I are most grateful for it. Yet the time has come for us to depart."

"As you wish," Éomer answered with a small bow of his head.

"Before we do leave, however," Legolas began, "is there anything that I, or we, might do for your sister?"

"I do not believe so," Éomer said, watching Gúthwyn as she stirred. "There is little that anyone can." A sigh escaped him. "I wish that she were not so sickly. Every time she becomes delirious, I am afraid that it…" He trailed off and swallowed, but Legolas did not need him to speak further. He, too, was growing increasingly concerned for her health; often, he wondered if it did not have its roots in the time she had worked as a slave.

"Did she fall ill frequently when she was younger?" he asked, delicately avoiding the subject of her captivity.

"I do not recall it as being so," Éomer answered, "but then I ask myself how that can be, for now she is confined to her bed with each passing cold, even if it is but a trifle. Neither Éowyn nor I are afflicted by this—only my uncle ever spent a great amount of time being sick, and that was because of that serpent."

He only hissed slightly as he uttered Gríma's title, but Legolas knew that those wounds were still very much open. To have been kept a prisoner in his own home, subject to the will of a foul-tongued man intent on destroying his country from within, was an insult and an injustice so severe that a lifetime was not enough to forgive it.

"It matters not," Éomer said at last, though his eyes spoke otherwise. "Gúthwyn was never subject to his wiles, for which I thank the Valar."

There was a long silence afterward, in which Legolas recalled the harrowing story Gúthwyn had told them about her years in Isengard and Mordor. She had not, in fact, escaped Gríma's deviations. Instead, she had almost been raped by him, perhaps the worst offense that could be committed against a woman. And for one to contemplate humiliating a child in that matter… It was the knowledge that this had almost been a reality which had made killing Wormtongue so satisfactory.

At that moment, a pair of staggering footsteps were heard outside in the hall.

"What—" Éomer began, and then trailed off, his gaze resting on something beyond Legolas's shoulder. A quiet curse escaped his lips.

Legolas turned to see Hammel leaning heavily on the doorframe, his eyes glassed with fever. "Gúthwyn," he mumbled, making a conscious effort to keep himself steady. "Is… she… Why was… she… screaming?"

"She is fine now," Éomer told him. "Go back to bed, Hammel."

At the sound of the boy's name, Gúthwyn made an effort to reach forward, but her fingers moved only a few inches. "Hammel…" she slurred, her eyes squinting in his general direction. "Hammel…"

Hammel took a step towards her, swayed, and had to clutch at the door to keep from falling.

"Hammel, go back to bed," Éomer repeated sternly.

"Hammel," Gúthwyn whispered pitifully. Legolas almost felt embarrassed to be watching her. She was so weak, so frail, that he knew she would loathe him seeing her in this state.

A sigh escaped Éomer. "Legolas, will you stay with my sister while I bring Hammel to his room?" he questioned.

After a split second's hesitation, Legolas nodded. He prayed that she would not suddenly regain her vision, for he doubted that she would react well to his company—especially if she had just been dreaming of Haldor.

Éomer thanked him, but Hammel took another step forward and said adamantly, "No." His eyes were fixed on Legolas, blazing so fiercely that for a moment Thranduil's son was amazed by the hatred reflected in them. "What are you doing here?" Hammel demanded, hardly stumbling on his words at all.

"He knows not what he says," Éomer hastily assured Legolas, and went over to the boy.

_On the contrary,_ Legolas thought sadly, realizing now what was troubling the child, _he knows exactly what he is saying._

"Get out," Hammel spat as Éomer placed a hand on his arm. He struggled against the king, but the effort was utterly futile. Éomer pulled him away easily, casting an apologetic glance over his shoulder. "Get out!"

His protests continued until they had faded from Legolas's earshot; exhaling, the prince returned his attentions to Gúthwyn, still wondering at what he had seen. What could Haldor possibly have done to incur Hammel's emotions, even half a decade later? What had he done to terrify Gúthwyn so much that she trembled whenever his name was mentioned?

It was then that she groaned softly, and murmured, "Hammel…"

Not entirely certain of what he should do, Legolas drew closer and crouched down beside her bed. "You will be able to see him when you recover," he said gently. "I promise."

She mumbled "little one" and fell silent again. Legolas gazed at her, inwardly marveling at how mortals could suffer so much sickness and still be resilient to the dying out of their race. Long had it been foreseen that the time of the Elves, his own people, was coming to a close, and that these humans would wrest control of Middle-earth from all others. Looking at Gúthwyn, he could not see how that would happen.

His friend's face was flushed with fever. Thinking that she must be hot, Legolas reached for a rag and lowered it into the water bucket. Although he was loath to come into contact with her, for fear that she might wake up and panic, her clearly parched lips and uncomfortable sighs made him set aside his concerns.

Wringing some of the excess liquid out of the cloth, Legolas moved closer to Gúthwyn's bed and began dabbing it on her forehead and cheeks. His touch was soft, for he did not want to rouse her from her fitful sleep, and she looked so fragile that it was tempting to believe that she would simply crack if he pressed too hard.

"Boromir," Gúthwyn mumbled, the name hardly intelligible. All the life seemed to have gone out of her: she was no longer moving, and her face was paler than it had been before. Legolas started, not having expected to hear the Gondorian's name. It had been months since he had thought about the man, he who had died defending Merry and Pippin from the Uruk-hai.

"Nay, it is Legolas," the prince replied gently, not quite sure why he was speaking to her. She was obviously in her own world, unable to recognize or communicate with him. Nevertheless he continued to cool her, hoping that at least he was easing her discomfort.

Gúthwyn's eyelids fluttered, and then her gaze fixed on him. He had the sudden sensation that she knew exactly where he was—maybe even who he was. Remembering her early terror of him, Legolas stiffened, and wondered if he should cease his ministrations.

"Boro…" she whispered then, incapable of finishing the name. "Bor… Bor…"

Legolas went to wipe her brow again. He had not done so very long before her hand rose, hovered in the air, and gently touched his face.

"Boromir," she murmured, the name slurred almost beyond recognition.

Legolas froze. Her fingertips were pressed so lightly against his cheek that it might as well have been a fleeting caress of the wind, but there was nothing in the world that he was more aware of. Thinking he was Boromir, Gúthwyn traced his jaw line, moving slowly and carefully as if she were reacquainting herself with familiar territory. He was beginning to find it very difficult to concentrate on his task; more than ever he prayed that she would not wake, for if she saw their proximity she would panic. He willed himself to remain perfectly motionless, but at that moment her fingers gently brushed across his lips.

He jerked backwards, dropping the rag on the sheets beside her. Gúthwyn took no notice. She continued to touch Boromir's face, her mouth occasionally forming his name but never getting the words out. When at last she lowered her hand, Legolas let out a long breath he had not known he had been holding. To have been the recipient of so intimate a gesture was only made worse by the fact that Gúthwyn had no knowledge of her straying beyond the boundaries of her dream. A small, prejudiced part of him, one that he had long ago buried, resurfaced long enough to induce a keen urge to wash where he had been touched by the mortal.

_Gúthwyn is a friend,_ he reminded himself in the next instant, guilt-ridden for having allowed the thought—however brief and unbidden—to pass through his mind. _Nor was she aware of what she was doing._

"Boromir," Gúthwyn mumbled again. This time, Legolas imagined that there was something different in the pronunciation, but she was so delirious that he could hardly understand her. Instead, he placed his wonder in the growing realization that Gúthwyn's feelings for Boromir were far deeper than he had originally believed. It was not the custom for acquaintances to caress each other; nay, that was something for lovers.

Yet how could Gúthwyn and Boromir have been so? He had not seen a single amorous glance exchanged between the two of them. In truth, the Steward's son did not particularly seem suited to the idea of taking a wife. Had they been betrothed, an arrangement between Théoden and Denethor?

He decided against it immediately. Éomer or Gúthwyn would have told him if this had been the case. Besides, the age difference between them was striking. While Gúthwyn had not entered her twentieth year at the time of the Fellowship, Boromir had passed his fortieth. A couple of decades were of no consequence to his own people, but he doubted that Théoden would have agreed to a contract between his youngest niece and Denethor's eldest son, especially since Éowyn had not been engaged at the time.

Furthermore, he recalled Boromir telling him that he and Gúthwyn had just met a week prior to Elrond's council. Although it was possible that their betrothal had been conducted solely on paper, and the two of them had never even seen the partner they were to wed, the way in which Boromir had worded the sentence seemed to rule out that possibility.

Therefore, it seemed that a love—if indeed there was any, for how could the presence of such a strong emotion have gone unmarked by the Company?—on Gúthwyn's part could only have grown sometime during the course of their journey. Yet how could this be? Her behavior towards Boromir had remained constant throughout their travels: she had always appeared to regard him as a friend, and nothing more. On the other hand, Legolas could not deny what he had just witnessed.

_How?_ he asked himself, glancing back at the woman before him. _How could I not have noticed?_ Even his concern for Frodo's safety, coupled with the perpetual threat of the Enemy watching their every movement, would not have made him so oblivious to the other Walkers.

At that moment, Éomer reappeared, heralded by the distinct smell of vomit. "Poor boy," he muttered, gesturing down the hall. "I barely got him in the room before he threw up all over the floor."

"Is he feeling well now?" Legolas inquired, recalling Hammel's glazed eyes and white pallor.

Éomer nodded. "All he needs is rest," he replied confidently. "What of Gúthwyn? Has she spoken?"

Legolas hesitated for a second and then responded, "She has, but I cannot make sense of it."

Sighing, Éomer looked at his sister for a moment. "What is keeping that healer?" he at last questioned, his eyes narrowing in displeasure.

As if on cue, someone stepped into the room. Glancing up, Legolas saw the healer, his arms full of herbs and bandages. "I am sorry for the delay," he apologized fervently, "but my idiotic apprentice misplaced half of my things. When did Gúthwyn stop screaming?"

"A few minutes ago," Éomer informed him. "How many days do you think she will be like this, Halwend?"

"I cannot say," Halwend replied heavily, removing a bowl from a small pack and putting his ground-up herbs inside. "When last she fell ill she was delirious for three nights, was she not?"

Éomer nodded. "Yesterday she did not seem to know where she was, but this is the first time she has ever yelled."

Halwend looked worriedly at his charge. "Does she ever have nightmares?" he questioned, adding some odd-smelling paste to his mixture.

Éomer's eyes narrowed for the barest instant before he responded, "Yes, occasionally."

"That may very well be the source of her distress," Halwend answered. Surprisingly, hope was written across his features. "If she is able to speak, then that is certainly an improvement from yesterday."

"Shall I have extra blankets on hand?" Éomer asked.

Halwend nodded. "It cannot hurt," he said. "With luck, she will get the chills soon, and then—unless something goes wrong—we do not have to expect a recurrence of her delirium."

He let the two of them mull over this remark while he finished creating his poultice. "Put this on her head and neck, and wrap the bandages around those areas," he instructed when he was done. "It may alleviate some of her discomfort, and hopefully will aid in the lowering of her fever. Let me know when she gets the chills—then, I believe we have only to wait until she is better."

The relief on Éomer's face was evident as he readily agreed to this. "Thank you so much," he said. Legolas, too, felt somewhat calmed in this knowledge. To view Gúthwyn's suffering was an affliction almost in itself, and he had seen far too much of it in the years past.

"It is not a trouble," Halwend assured him. "Your care has been such that I hardly have room to improve upon it. The one thing I would advise is that she eat more often: one can nearly see all her bones."

Legolas could not help but concur with this. It was something that he had been noticing of late, especially when she stood next to Lothíriel. The queen was slender, to the point where her waist was smaller than even Arwen Undómiel's; with Gúthwyn, on the other hand, it was as if one could close their fist around her stomach without great difficulty.

Having had far more experience with the matter than he, Éomer nodded grimly. "I have told her that frequently," he said with a sigh. "She has not been eating well for months. Sometimes I feel as if her diet would starve a bird."

Had they only been jesting, the remark would have been amusing.

"I pray you shall not need my services anytime soon," Halwend spoke then, handing the mixture to Éomer as he stood.

"I hope not," Éomer replied with a nod. "Thank you."

Halwend bowed, and with that departed. As the door closed Gúthwyn stirred, and whispered Boromir's name again. Legolas drew in his breath, praying that she would go no further.

"What did you say, sister?" Éomer questioned, his ears not as sharp as the Elf's.

"Boromir," Gúthwyn repeated, the name barely intelligible.

Éomer's eyes widened in shock. "Did she just speak of Faramir's brother?" he asked Legolas, for some reason seeming on the brink of solving a riddle. He was staring fixatedly at his sister, almost as if he had never seen her before.

Completely at a loss as to what was preoccupying Éomer, Legolas confirmed, "Aye, she did."

"He died three years ago…" Éomer murmured.

"Five," Legolas corrected, but the king either did not hear him or chose not to pay heed to his words.

"Legolas," he began slowly, as Gúthwyn whispered the Gondorian man's name again, "how close were she and Boromir?"

Now, Legolas knew exactly what was troubling the king. "They were good friends," he said slowly, not wanting to tell the man what he had just witnessed. "They met before the Fellowship was formed; Boromir mentioned that they had been traveling together for about a week upon their arrival at Rivendell."

"Traveling together?" Éomer echoed, something in his gaze hardening.

Something inside Legolas made him pause. A memory had suddenly come back to him, one that he had forgotten long ago. Several nights, they had camped alongside the Misty Mountains. During one of these times, Boromir and Gimli had struck up a conversation about their lives at home, chiefly the burdens of nobility.

"_My father has always wanted me to find a wife," the Man declared, rolling his eyes upwards. "I understand his concern, but I have no desire to do his bidding at the moment—not when there are wars to be fought. Nor have I yet found a woman that might make me consider otherwise."_

_On a rare instance of socialization, Gúthwyn remarked dryly from where she was sitting against a rock, "How miserable your life must be."_

_Boromir did not seem to take offense at her words, and even smiled at them. "I suppose you are free from such inconveniences?"_

_There was a slight pause. "Yes," Gúthwyn said at last, the barest hint of irony in her voice. "I am."_

The recollection was enough to convince Legolas. "They were not in love with each other," he at last declared. As for Gúthwyn—it was probably the fever making her behave so abnormally. He had never seen the two of them so much as look at each other for longer than was considered appropriate. They had not held hands, flirted, or made excuses to be in each other's company. He had been foolish to assume them in love, when all the evidence—aside from Gúthwyn's delirious murmurings—had pointed to the contrary. Putting the idea firmly from his head, he added, "Boromir, I believe, felt the need to protect her, for he often pressed her as to whether she was well. It was he who rescued her from the snow on Caradhras, and he who first noticed her Warg bite outside of Moria."

Éomer sighed. "Forget I mentioned it," he said heavily. "She told me once…" He sighed again. "It matters not."

Legolas chose not to pursue the topic, and instead glanced at Gúthwyn. She now lay still, no signs of movement from her small body. He found himself praying for her well-being. It would devastate Éomer, he knew, if the fever triumphed over her; he himself would feel a great sense of loss. As much as she feared him, he wanted to make amends with her so that, one day, she would be able to look at him without remembering whatever it was that Haldor had done to her.

"Boromir," Gúthwyn muttered again, and it struck him then that it sounded more like "Borogor," though he could not think of where he had heard the name before.


	77. Onyveth

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventy-Seven:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Seventy-Seven**

Nearly five more days passed before Gúthwyn at last caught the chills. For a week after, her body was wracked with uncontrollable shivers. Although she was absolutely miserable, her delirium had subsided and she was able to hold a conversation with someone. Cobryn and Éomer were her chief well-wishers, but once Hammel had recovered from his brief fever he too came to see her. After learning that she was no longer to wed Elphir, his temper had become remarkably less surly, and Cobryn informed her that he was now on speaking terms with Aldeth—though by no means had Wulfríd discontinued his own visits.

By the time her chills waned, Haiweth had also contracted a mild form of the fever, but she was only confined to her bed for one day and then resumed play with her friends. As Gúthwyn's health returned, she began conducting the girl's lessons inside her chambers, despite the fact that little could be accomplished with an ailing tutor. Cobryn offered to relieve her of this duty until she was feeling better, yet she was determined to get back to normal as soon as possible and declined, of course after expressing her gratitude.

Even though she was steadily regaining her former strength, neither Halwend the healer nor Éomer would suffer her to leave her room until they were confident that she was no longer touched by even the faintest trace of illness. The evidence of this took quite awhile to surface, much to Gúthwyn's exasperation. Ever and anon her head would burn, or she would be beset with a weak case of the chills; either that, or she would not be able to keep down her food. The latter was more likely, and Éomer complained that she had lost so much weight that all of her bones were visible through her dress.

The aforementioned evidence was delayed, to be sure, but one day towards the end of the month Gúthwyn awoke with a sudden realization: she was free. It was not the numb acknowledgment with which she had read Imrahil's letter; it was complete, total, utter understanding, the full awareness of the fact that she was bound to no man, and was once again her own person.

She did not know why it had taken her so long to accept this, but in that moment she wanted to write to Éowyn and inform her of the joyous news. She wanted to get out of bed and laugh, cry, sing—anything that would suffice to express her happiness. She wanted to see the children, to socialize with her people, to go for an afternoon ride in the open fields with Éomer.

As these emotions strove within her, each so potent that she thought her heart would burst from them, a knock sounded on the door.

"Who is it?" she called, grinning like a fool.

"It is Cobryn," a voice replied. "May I come in?"

"Of course!" Gúthwyn beamed, positive that her merry voice had by now leaked through the door.

"Well, well," Cobryn said, raising an eyebrow at her expression. He seemed distinctly pleased as he inquired, "What is it that has put you in such a good mood?"

"I am free!" Gúthwyn burst out, a broad grin on her face. "I do not have to become a princess anymore—I need not worry about gossip in Dol Amroth—I can remain at home and with Éomer—I can watch Elfwine grow up—" She could not continue for delight.

Cobryn laughed. "It only took you a couple of weeks to realize this," he remarked, though not unkindly. "Yet I am glad you did. You could use some cheer in your life."

"I have all that I need right now," Gúthwyn replied, shaking her head. "I just wish I was able to see Éowyn and tell her… well, that cannot be helped." She shrugged, knowing that a letter would only take a few weeks to reach the recipient.

"Other than your disposition, how do you feel?" Cobryn asked, pulling up a chair and sitting down in it.

"Excellent," Gúthwyn answered. "When can I leave this room? I have memorized every inch of the walls, and could likely recite all the places in which there are cracks in the floor."

"Your stomach does not ail you at all?" Cobryn pressed, studying her closely.

As much as she was tempted to say _yes_ immediately, Gúthwyn calmed herself and concentrated on her belly. Now that she thought about it, there was a strange sensation within her. It was almost akin to nausea, but not quite. She said as much to Cobryn.

"When was the last time you ate?" he questioned.

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to respond, yet then remembered that she could not, in fact, recall any recent meal. As her stomach contracted again, her eyes widened. "I am hungry," she announced, for the first time in months.

"I am not sure if you are well, after all," Cobryn said, looking even more surprised than she was. With a tone that suggested he was wondering when she would change her mind, he hastily asked, "Shall I get you something to eat?"

Gúthwyn nodded emphatically, inexplicably wanting nothing more than a good, solid meal inside of her. As Cobryn left the room, she marveled at this change within herself. Just days before, the mere thought of food made her want to vomit, as it had for years—now she was actually anticipating breakfast. Or lunch, depending on what time it was.

_More likely the latter,_ she thought wryly, glancing up at the window in order to determine where the sun was. Predictably, the light was in the position it occupied at high noon. Rays of sun were drifting gently down onto her, only heightening her good mood. She was still not quite certain how her reaction to Elphir's rejection of her had been so delayed; yet now she felt better than ever, and was more than ready to rise from her bed.

It seemed to take an eternity for Cobryn to return, but when at last he did, her heart and stomach were gladdened by the sight of a steaming bowl of soup and some bread. "Thank you so much," she breathed, shifting to accommodate it on her lap. When he held the tray out to her she accepted it eagerly. Figuring that at this point she had probably had enough bread to last her for the rest of her life, she decided to be bold and have the stew.

The first spoonful of broth running down her throat tasted sweeter than anything she had ever eaten before. She swallowed it eagerly, hardly daring to believe that she could be this hungry. _Éomer will be proud of me,_ she thought, having another mouthful. Best of all, no meat had tainted the liquid: it was a simple brew of some vegetables, and nothing more.

However, she had only consumed about half of the bowl before Cobryn stopped her. "Do not eat anymore," he cautioned her, leaning over and holding his hand out for the tray. "You will get sick."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened. "You are always telling me that I need to have a better diet!" she exclaimed somewhat indignantly, though in reality her spirits were too high to be bothered overmuch by this hindrance. "And now that I wish to, you prohibit me from it!"

"You do need to have a proper appetite," Cobryn agreed, still not lowering his hands. "However, you have had but a few morsels of food over the past couple of weeks. Your stomach is not used to sustenance, and you shall become ill if you have too much too soon."

Reluctantly, Gúthwyn gave him the tray, trusting his words on the basis that it was Cobryn, and he had never lied to her before. Determined, however, to give some proof of her drastically improved health, she declared, "I have been in this bed for nearly a month, and I am tired of it."

Cobryn, whom she had half expected to discourage her, nodded and asked, much to her pleasure, "Would you like to try some walking?"

Gúthwyn nodded, and without further preamble pushed the blankets off and swung her feet over the bed. Cobryn was instantly at her side, holding a hand out to steady her as she gingerly tested her weight on both legs. At first, she could not stand. After receiving no exercise for weeks, they were lacking their former strength, and she wobbled so precariously that she had to sit back down on the bed.

Trying not to be embarrassed by this, especially because the Valar knew how many problems Cobryn had with his own legs, Gúthwyn persisted until at last she was able to rise without her friend's assistance. She then took a couple of halting steps forward. The work was wearisome, as she felt stiff and sore from all of her resting. But slowly, little by little, she began to recover her old pace.

"Do you want to try going out into the hall?" Cobryn questioned.

Gúthwyn raised an eyebrow. "Do I need to answer that?"

He laughed. "Can you get dressed on your own, or shall I send for one of the maids?"

At a look from her, he conceded, "I will wait outside."

Gúthwyn waited until he had left and then hobbled over to the wardrobe. Within an hour, all of her legs' weakness would disappear, but until then they made such a simple task unreasonably difficult. She fumbled and cursed her way into one of her older dresses, chosen for its shorter length—which meant only that she would not have to worry about tripping over it.

At long last she was done, and she had donned a pair of boots to finish the ensemble. She had elected not to wear her slippers, comfortable though they were, for she had every intention of going outside. Feeling heartened at the very idea, and still rejoicing to know that she was free from Elphir's shadow, she hummed as she walked (floated, more likely) to the door.

When she opened it, Cobryn was leaning against the wall, but upon seeing her he straightened. "The others are eating lunch right now," he told her, "and I have informed them that you have already broken your fast, but Éomer is insistent upon seeing you. He would have done so long ago, if Elfwine had not been consuming so much of his attention."

Gúthwyn grinned, ecstatic as she imagined her nephew. She had not seen him for weeks—the prospect of finally doing so was enough to make her want to run all the way into the throne room, yet her legs would certainly have failed her. Instead, she had to content herself with a fast pace, though she was conscientious in not getting too far ahead of Cobryn.

As they neared the hall, Elfwine's gleeful shouts met their ears, followed by Lothíriel's exasperated voice and Éomer's deep-throated laugh. They were the first people Gúthwyn saw when she stepped into the room.

Éomer was the one who noticed her, though almost immediately afterwards the servants whispered hurriedly amongst themselves. "Welcome back, sister!" the king called, his smile contagious as he stood up. Lothíriel's face was mask-like as the two siblings approached each other and embraced. Éomer kissed her brow and declared that there was color in her cheeks once more. "This hall has been dreary without your presence," he added, pulling away so that he might examine her more satisfactorily.

Gúthwyn blushed. "Thank you," she murmured, highly embarrassed but pleased nevertheless. "It is good to surround myself with my family and friends again."

"And we are glad to have you with us," Éomer replied.

At that moment, there was a gleeful shout of, "Gúthy!"

Éomer moved aside, saying proudly, "His walking has greatly improved," but Gúthwyn barely heard a word as she saw her nephew for the first time in nearly a month. He had wriggled out of Lothíriel's grasp and slid onto the floor, landing on his bottom and almost immediately pulling himself to his feet. Stumbling and weaving, he tottered over to her, his arms open wide and tiny teeth beaming upwards.

Gúthwyn thought she would melt. Elfwine became a blur before her as she was moved to tears. The broader her grin was, the wetter her cheeks grew. When the child at last stood in front of her, she picked him up and settled him in her arms, still teary-eyed as she cuddled him close to her. She marveled at her weakness but Elfwine merely laughed, tugging at her hair and babbling in a mix between Rohirric, the Common Tongue, and his own private language.

"Sister, are you all right?" Éomer asked concernedly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Gúthwyn nodded, kissing Elfwine's nose and eliciting a giggling fit from him. "I am fine," she assured Éomer, her voice hitching. "It is Elfwine… I did not realize that I missed him so much…"

"Effine," the baby in question echoed, causing her to laugh even through her tears.

"You can say your name now, little one," she praised him, stroking his dark hair. "I am so proud of you!"

"Effine," Elfwine repeated smugly, and pressed his small palm against the smooth curve of her cheek. "Gúthy back."

Éomund's daughter began crying in earnest.

* * *

Although Gúthwyn had recovered, Heorot's condition was growing steadily worse. It was becoming increasingly clear that he was no longer fit to bear her. His coat was perpetually shedding, and he had taken to lying down in his stall, something he had never done before. She started spending large amounts of time in the stables, doing everything she could to ease his discomfort and keenly aware that these were likely the last couple of months—maybe even weeks—that she had with him. Éomer, understanding of the bond between a horse and its rider, let her go whenever she pleased, and took it on his part to cheer her when she returned. 

Despite her brother's efforts, Éomund's daughter felt gloomy on an early sunny day in July. She was walking down the street, taking a moment to clear her head before she went to visit Heorot. Trying to ignore the pointed looks from the women, she made her way towards the training grounds, thinking of watching the men practice. Ever since news of the collapse of her betrothal to Elphir had spread, which had taken a remarkably short time, she had become a laughingstock amongst the younger women who associated themselves with Lothíriel's maids.

It was not the mortification of being rejected by a prince that hurt Gúthwyn so much as the fact that her own people thought it amusing. While the older women such as Hildeth, Brytta, and Wífled paid no heed to the malicious gossip of the maids, nearly all of the others reveled in it. Whenever Éomund's daughter walked by a group of them, she felt as if she were a mouse beneath their cat-like eyes, ready to be pounced on at any minute.

Because of this, she was now comfortable only with her male companions, and found herself appreciating her friends on entirely new levels. Whenever she was with them, she did not have to worry about rumors later being spread about her every action and sentiment. Instead, there was jesting and laughter, and of course the sparring matches that she frequently participated in. Although today she was not intending on joining them, she still looked forward to watching.

When she arrived at the training grounds, she saw to her surprise that she was not the only onlooker at this hour. For the most part, crowds tended to gather around midday, when the duties were lighter and they could eat their lunch while watching the soldiers practice. Now that evening was nigh, Gúthwyn had expected to be the only such person present; however, she saw that she was wrong.

"Lebryn!" she exclaimed in shock, forgetting all about what she had been planning on doing.

The man's back was to her, but when he turned her eyes widened even further. In his arms was his daughter, a tiny little face surrounded by a sloppily-wrapped blanket. Her eyes were scrunched up in distaste, and at the sudden motion she began wailing.

"Thank you so much," Lebryn said sarcastically as she approached. Gúthwyn ignored him, transfixed by the sight of the infant. Though she had been out of bed for nearly a week at this point, between taking care of Heorot and resuming her other activities she had not had a chance to visit the new parents.

"She is beautiful!" she exclaimed. It was true: she had Lebryn's high cheekbones and Celewen's azure-colored eyes, coupled with darker hair than usual for Rohirric children. Gúthwyn knew instantly that she would be fervently sought after by all the young men when she came of age.

Her father, however, clearly did not hold her in such esteem. "She will not shut up," he snarled, his voice loud so that he could be heard over her shrieks. "I can count on one hand the number of minutes I have slept this week!"

"Many babies are like that," Gúthwyn reminded him, and then frowned. "Lebryn, you are not holding her properly!"

"What?" he asked, looking down at his arms.

"No wonder she is upset!" Gúthwyn cried, leaping forward and placing her palm under the infant's head, which was completely unsupported. "You could have snapped her neck!"

"What are you talking about?" he asked, both bewildered and irritated. "Since when are you supposed to hold them a certain way?"

Gúthwyn would have slapped him, had he not been holding his daughter. "Have you been carrying her for three weeks like this?" she asked, taking his fingers and forcibly moving them so that they were cupping the baby's head.

"This is the only time I have touched her," Lebryn said defensively, his annoyance evident.

Gúthwyn gaped at him. "She is your own child!" she at last managed, astounded. "What can you possibly have been doing that would keep you so otherwise occupied?"

"Do you think I _want_ to remain around the house and listen to this _thing_ bawl as if there is no tomorrow?" Lebryn demanded, shaking the infant slightly.

"Stop it!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, appalled. "Of course she is screaming—she hardly knows who you are!"

"That is ridiculous," Lebryn snapped. "I am her father!"

They were starting to get strange glances from some of the men.

"Lebryn," Gúthwyn said, trying to keep her temper in check, "the fact that you were present at her… her… conception does not mean that your child will take kindly to you. You have barely been at home—the Valar alone know what you have been doing instead—and you expect her to accept you as she does Celewen?"

When Lebryn stared blankly at her, she again was forced to withhold a much-deserved smack. It would only serve to augment his anger, and that would not help the girl at all. "You must spend some time with your baby," she said almost pleadingly. "Look at my brother! He could easily pay someone to raise his child, but—"

"Yes, but he _wanted_ Elfwine!" Lebryn snarled, his eyes almost wild in their rage. The infant in his arms wailed even louder. "I never wanted this—" he used a swearword so foul that Gúthwyn blanched, not having heard it since she left Mordor. "What do you expect me to do with it?"

"Does she have a name?" Gúthwyn asked suddenly, her voice laced with suspicion.

The baby's cries were quelled, almost as if she realized the importance of the question.

"No," Lebryn finally muttered, having the good grace to flush. "Celewen wanted to name her after a flower, but there is no chance that any child of mine is going to have such a foolish name."

"When are you planning on giving her one?" Gúthwyn wanted to know, trying to imagine what it was like not to have one. She had received her name within moments of her birth: Éomer told her that it was because she had reached for their father's sword upon seeing it on his waist.

Lebryn shrugged. "I do not know."

"Well, that will not do," Gúthwyn reprimanded him, and set about trying to think of something that both Lebryn and Gamling's niece would like. Her mind pulled up various common Rohirric names, but none of them seemed right for an infant who looked almost nothing like she came from the Riddermark.

Then she thought of a name, bittersweet and yet perfect. Knowing instantly that whatever else she came up with would pale in comparison, she asked, "What about Onyveth?"

It was the only time she ever succeeded in catching him off his guard. For a fleeting instant, raw emotion was displayed on his face, a heart-wrenching mix of tenderness and grief. She knew he had always cared for the young slave girl, regardless of how much he pretended otherwise; the sole occasion on which he had grown teary-eyed in front of her had been on Onyveth's account.

Just as soon as the moment came, however, it was gone, and replaced by a gruff expression. "I suppose," Lebryn grunted, looking dubiously down at his daughter.

The next instant, he cursed, for she raised her hand and swiped at his nose. Gúthwyn could not help but laugh, and was rewarded with a filthy glare.

"I should be going," Lebryn muttered, glowering at the infant. "Celewen probably wants to hear the name first."

"Good luck," Gúthwyn bade him, and smiled one last time at the baby. "If you ever need someone to watch over her, I will be glad to help."

"Thank you," Lebryn replied, the words seeming painful to speak. He turned away from her, and walked with his now silent child back up the street. Gúthwyn grinned and shook her head, having little doubt that the girl would be without a name for much longer.

"Gúthwyn!"

Glancing up, Éomund's daughter saw Elfhelm approaching her, a broad grin on his face. "Has Lebryn's temper improved at all?" he inquired. "I had half a mind to warn you, but I was too busy defeating Gamling."

The captain in question gave a shout to the contrary, but was occupied by a match with Erkenbrand and did not have much leisure time with which to defend himself. Gúthwyn laughed and replied, "He has always been like that, ever since he was a little boy. I know better than to take it personally."

"At this point, I think we all do," Elfhelm remarked in amusement, and then asked, "Can I persuade you to join me? I am in need of a partner, and a challenge."

Gúthwyn smiled innocently and said, "I daresay Gamling or Erkenbrand might provide you with one. In any case, I was planning on visiting the stables."

Her happiness dimmed a little as she said this, for the words brought into the foreground of her mind Heorot's diminishing strength. Elfhelm saw the look on her face, and his own became somewhat grimmer. "I heard that your horse is not well," he commented quietly. "I am sorry."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn responded with a sigh. "I do not think"—her voice hitched slightly—"I do not think he has many weeks left."

"You have had him for many years, have you not?" Elfhelm asked.

Gúthwyn nodded. "Ever since I was five."

"Then at least he is not dying before his time," Elfhelm said, "though I know that is little consolation. It is always hard to lose a horse."

Throughout her childhood years, Gúthwyn had seen few dead mares; yet Riders were known for all but living in the stables during the last days before their horse's death. It seemed she had followed in their footsteps.

"I may come down and take you up on your offer," she told Elfhelm, "after I am done visiting Heorot. Until then, farewell."

"Farewell," Elfhelm replied, and the two of them parted. Gúthwyn turned around and began climbing up the road, her heart heavier at the prospect of caring for a dying horse.

As she neared the stables, she happened to see Lothíriel on the landing of Meduseld, speaking to one of the messengers. She did not bother to call out a greeting, for she knew that the queen would most likely ignore her. Instead she continued on her way, reflecting that relations between her and her brother's wife had probably grown even more strained over the past week. Lothíriel had seemed most annoyed that she was out of bed and able to walk around, probably because the two of them now saw each other on a daily basis. As much as Gúthwyn hated to admit it, she had rather enjoyed not having to deal with the other woman—though such pleasure had been overridden by her condition.

_You cannot avoid her now,_ she reminded herself sternly. _She is Éomer's wife and Elfwine's mother; because of your love for them you must learn to tolerate her._

All of her reasoning, however, no matter how well-placed, was insufficient to heal the wound of resentment lying between the two women. Gúthwyn's illness might have caused it to recede, but it was ever close to the surface, threatening the fragile shell of truce they had constructed around the household. Only the slightest amount of pressure was needed to break it entirely.

* * *

**A/N:** This story has reached over 200 reviews! Thank you guys so much—I love hearing from you, and I hope you continue to enjoy Gúthwyn's tale! Things are going to start heating up very quickly, as the visit from the Dol Amroth court is fast approaching, and with it some revelations about Lothíriel's past. If you haven't read the revisions for Chapter 42, it would be a good idea to do so now, otherwise it might seem like some things come up out of the blue.

Again, thank you all so much!


	78. Not a Mother

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventy-Eight:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Seventy-Eight**

The night before the court of Dol Amroth was due to arrive, Gúthwyn was unable to sleep. She tossed and turned in her bed, wondering what it would be like to meet Elphir again. Part of her was nervous: he must have been dreadfully angry with her about something, if he had called off their betrothal so abruptly and—as Éomer said—rudely. At the end of July, she had tried writing to him once more, but a full month had since gone by with no response.

Although she was beyond bewildered as to why he had suddenly rejected her, she knew that her life had taken a turn for the better now that she was out from under the shadow of marriage. She was now having at least one full meal a day, sometimes two. All of the weight she had lost during her illness had been regained, and then some. Éomer and Cobryn praised her for this, declaring that she had never looked healthier. With the exception of Cwene and Hildeth, none of the women scolded her for being so thin.

As much as she had improved, however, Heorot had not. Her horse was now barely able to go out for a walk, and he was beginning to refuse food. This frightened Gúthwyn, for if he continued like this he would not live out the month. The thought of him dying was enough to make a lump form in her throat, though she had shown enough weakness over the years and refused to display it to the outside world.

Only adding to her unease, Legolas was also supposed to appear in Edoras tomorrow. He was passing through again—at this point, she had lost track of whether he was on his way to Mirkwood or whether he was returning from his home. She was certain that Éomer had mentioned it to her, but quite frankly it did not matter if she would have to gaze into Haldor's face once more.

_You are friends,_ she tried to tell herself. _You have forgiven him already. Put the past behind you, and forget about Haldor!_

A swell of nausea rebuked her efforts to maintain her calmness, and she gave up on any hopes of sleep. Sitting up, she let out a deep breath and then slid off of her bed. Going to her wardrobe and getting out a cloak, she decided to visit Heorot. She would have to bring a lantern out to the stables, as the moon was obscured tonight—this morning, more likely—but his company might bring her some tranquility.

After slipping on her boots, she quickly located a lantern and lit it with one of her candles. She then stepped out into the hall, going quietly so as not to disturb anyone. Yet she could not resist checking on the children, and found herself relieved to see that Haiweth was sleeping soundly in her bed. When she glanced into Hammel's room, she saw the familiarly-shaped lump beneath his blankets and let out a sigh.

The boy's social status had not improved this summer. If anything, it had worsened. He had reverted to ignoring Aldeth to the point where the girl seemed close to tears every time she walked away from him; Wulfríd continued bullying him, joined by increasingly large numbers of children. Even Haiweth avoided him, confessing to Gúthwyn that his temper was so foul that she felt he would sooner shout at her than look at her. He spent most of his time indoors, holed up in his room with a thick book and devouring every scrap of information he could glean from the texts of past scribes.

She moved softly into the room as she dwelled upon this. Hammel's behavior was not reflected only to his peers; she, too, had noticed that he had been pulling away from everyone. He rarely spoke to her, and when he did he was condescending and short of speech. It seemed that only Cobryn was able to hold a decent conversation with him, for which she sorely envied her friend.

_Why does he no longer wish to talk to me?_ she wondered sadly, reaching out to adjust his blanket. _What have I ever done to him?_

Her fingers pressed down onto a soft cushion, right where Hammel's shoulder should have been.

Gúthwyn's eyes widened, and swiftly she flung the covers away. A long wad of clothes and pillows had been artfully stored beneath the blankets, giving all the appearance of a teenage boy at rest. For a moment, she stared at Hammel's masterpiece in utter shock. Then she began panicking, her mind filled with wild possibilities. He had wandered off somewhere—what if he had gotten lost in the dark, tripped over something and fallen unconscious, or gone into the taverns of Edoras?

_No,_ she told herself firmly. _He has probably just left to get a drink of water. The pillows are there so that if you walked by and glanced into his room, you would not grow worried. You are overreacting._

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to survey the room slowly, just in case he was still there for some reason. She peered into every corner, holding the lantern up so that she might discern any unusual shapes, but there was nothing.

_All right,_ she thought. _I will go check in Haiweth's room once more, and then I will go out into the throne room. He must be there._

Not wanting to imagine what would happen if he was not, Gúthwyn hastened from his quarters and opened Haiweth's door again. The girl was still sleeping peacefully, her chest rising up and down with a steady rhythm. Hammel was nowhere in sight; nor had she really expected him to be. Nevertheless, plumes of nervousness were beginning to rise within her.

_He will be in the throne room,_ she consoled herself. _Do not worry. He must be getting a drink—that _must_ be it._

Yet when she passed into the great hall, and lifted her lantern up high so that she might see between all the pillars, her anxiety was increased tenfold. Hammel was nowhere to be found. There was now little doubt that he had gone outside. _Why?_ she demanded silently, double- and triple-checking the hall. _What if he is in trouble? What if he goes out of the city?_

_Hammel would never do that,_ the reasonable part of her mind argued. _He is a sensible child, and he knows better than to endanger himself._

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, willing herself not to be alarmed, Gúthwyn decided to wait for five minutes. There may have been no water left in the large bucket that was usually kept near the door. It would take about half a minute to walk to the well, a couple or so to fill the container, and then another thirty seconds to bring it back. If he did not return in that amount of time… _He will. He must._

Five minutes came and went, with no sign of the boy. Gúthwyn all but ran to the doors, her movements only quieted because—at the moment—she did not wish to wake Cobryn. _I will if I cannot find Hammel,_ she promised herself, although she would have felt more secure if he was searching with her.

She stole outdoors, grateful for the warm weather they were having, and gazed up and down the main road. Hammel was not there. _The road bends towards the outskirts of the city,_ she reminded herself. _Perhaps he has gone to look out over the plains._

With that in mind, she made her way down the street, holding out her lantern as a guard against what might be lurking in the darkness. It was an irrational fear, as nothing had invaded the city and her people were trustworthy, but it was a fear nonetheless. She walked quickly, her eyes squinting ahead of her for any glimpse of the boy. However, when she had gone around the curve and found herself standing before the gates, Hammel was not there.

_By the Valar,_ she thought weakly, dizzy with fear. Her terror paralyzed her for a split second as a plethora of horrible scenarios raced through her head, each of them worse than the last. Then she lifted up the hem of her nightgown and ran back up the road, her heart pounding as fast as her feet. She nearly tripped on the stairs but kept going, feeling like she would vomit as she pushed open one of the doors. The instant she set foot in the hall, she hastened over to Cobryn.

"Cobryn, wake up!" she hissed, dropping painfully to her knees and pushing at his shoulder. She had barely uttered the first syllable before he sat up and focused on her.

"What is it?" he asked, no trace of tiredness in his voice.

"Hammel is gone!" she cried, shaking.

His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

"He is not in his bed," Gúthwyn answered, on the verge of hysteria, "nor is he anywhere else in here. I looked up and down the main street but could not find him—what if he does not come back? W-What if he hurts himself? What if—"

"Gúthwyn, calm down," Cobryn said, placing two firm hands on her shoulders.

"He could be dead!" she choked out, wanting to cry. How could she possibly begin to search an entire city?

"He is _not_ dead," Cobryn replied vehemently. "Have you told Éomer?"

Frantically, Gúthwyn shook her head. Why were they wasting so much time? Hammel could have been injured, he could have—

"All right," Cobryn said, standing up. "I will help you look for him. If we do not locate him then, we will alert Éomer and gather a search party."

Gúthwyn whimpered, but Cobryn extended his hand out to her. She let him pull her to her feet. "I-I did not check the alleys," she whispered, bending over to pick up the lantern. "I had only this…"

"We can do them together," he promised. "Let us go."

He left his cane on the ground and did not glance backward as they headed for the doors. Gúthwyn opened her mouth when she noticed it, but thought better and decided against speaking. She soon forgot its absence in favor of fretting over Hammel.

"Why would he leave his room?" she asked as they emerged from the Golden Hall. "What was he thinking?"

"I doubt either of us could possibly begin to fathom it," Cobryn responded heavily. The two of them hurried down the stairs just as a lone bird made a keening sound that pierced the night air. Gúthwyn shivered, thinking of the crows that had circled around the dead at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.

"Why is he doing this?" she questioned unhappily.

"I am not sure," Cobryn said grimly. "But I for one intend to give him a piece of my mind once we find him."

"If we find him," Gúthwyn murmured, her eyes watering.

"We will," her friend vowed, and then pointed at a narrow alley behind one of the houses. "Shall we?"

Nervously, Gúthwyn nodded, drawing closer to him as they neared the lane. She swallowed hard before entering it, though had it been daytime she would not have thought twice about it. The street itself was not very long, although it was crowded with homes and was where the poorer residents of the city dwelled. She prayed that Hammel would be here, even if she could not imagine why that would be so.

Yet the child was nowhere in sight, and after calling his name as loudly as they dared they were forced to admit defeat. Gúthwyn's shoulders slumped as they came back onto the main road. There were dozens of these such places—and if Hammel was moving around, he might go into places they had already examined without them ever becoming aware of it.

"Should we keep to this side and work our way down?" Cobryn suggested.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Gúthwyn said, "A-As you wish."

The second alley, however, revealed nothing. The third was empty also, as well as the fourth and the fifth. Gúthwyn's terror returned in full force, until she was openly hyperventilating.

"Gúthwyn, you must remain calm," Cobryn insisted as they returned to the main road again. "We have hardly started our search."

"W-W-What if we never find him?" she exclaimed, feeling something warm running down her cheeks. "If he was getting a drink, he should have… he should have come back h-h-half an hour ago! He might be d-_dead!_"

"He is not dead," Cobryn swore, gripping her shoulder so tightly that she gasped in pain. "You need to stop panicking. You are not helping Hammel like this."

Yet she could not help remembering the last time Hammel had willfully left her sight; how his small hand had been taken by Haldor, how the two of them had walked away from her…

"You do not understand!" she burst out, wrenching away. "He could be anywhere, he could—"

"Wait," he suddenly said, holding up a hand. His gaze was focused on something beyond her shoulder. "That is him."

Gúthwyn swiveled around to see a slender figure emerging from behind the armory. Such relief flooded over her that for a moment she could not do anything. It was only when Hammel appeared not to take any notice of them, and continued on his way towards Meduseld, that she gave a start and called out his name. He paused, turning slowly to look at them.

She was running towards him, unsure of whether to yell at him or embrace him. "Where were you?" she at last demanded, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him fiercely. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? Why did you come out here? What were you doing?"

Hammel stepped back from her, avoiding her touch. His features were blank as he replied, "I was walking."

"In the middle of the night?" Gúthwyn asked, trying to ignore how much it hurt to have him pull away from her.

"Yes," Hammel answered shortly. "Is there a problem?"

"Is there a problem?" Gúthwyn repeated incredulously. "Hammel, I did not know where you were! For all I knew, you could have hurt yourself, you could have—"

"I am not that incapable of being on my own," Hammel said icily. "_You_ left Haiweth and I by ourselves in Mordor when she was only five."

His words hit her like a slap in the face. "I had no choice," she retorted coldly. "This is an entirely different matter."

Cobryn reached them then, one hand placed bracingly on his leg. Gúthwyn glanced at him briefly and then added, "I do not want you to leave your room during the night again! If you must get a drink of water, use the bucket in the hall."

Hammel's expression soured. "You have no right to order me around," he snapped. "You are not my mother—stop pretending to be!"

Gúthwyn froze, staring at him in shock. His words hurt more than Haldor's ever had. The hatred with which they were spoken, the bitter tone in which they were uttered, lashed at her with the pain of being stabbed in the heart by a thousand knives. After all she had sacrificed for Hammel, the ways in which she had humiliated herself for his sake, the boy resented her. She could not speak for horror.

Quick as a flash, Cobryn reached out and grabbed Hammel's arm, yanking him close. "It is because of her that you have a roof over your head and food in your ungrateful mouth every day," he snarled. "You owe her your respect, if nothing else! Do you understand?"

Hammel's gaze threatened to shoot arrows at Cobryn, but the advisor did not loosen his grip until he had grudgingly nodded. When he was released, he lifted his hand to rub angrily at the sore area.

"What is that?" Gúthwyn asked sharply, her maternal instincts rising again. A large pink spot was spread across his palm, rimmed with what looked suspiciously like soot.

"Nothing," Hammel said quickly, blocking it from her view.

"That is _not_ nothing," Gúthwyn answered, shooting her hand out to examine it. He evaded her grasp the first time, but the second time did not have success. Against his struggles she pulled his wrist upwards. "Did you burn yourself?" she asked frantically, smelling the acrid scent of ash upon flesh.

"It is none of your business," Hammel growled.

"Of course it is!" Gúthwyn exclaimed. "If something is hurting you, I need to know so I can—"

"And that," Hammel inquired, "is why you lie to Éomer every time he asks you if you are feeling well?"

Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat. "We are not discussing my habits," she finally managed. "You are under _my_ care, and therefore yours are my business. Right now, you are to go back to your room immediately. If I hear the door opening once, I swear you will not read a book for an entire week! Is that perfectly clear?"

Hammel jutted his chin out and was silent.

"_Answer me,_" she breathed.

"Yes," he muttered sullenly.

"Good." Gúthwyn stepped back, giving Hammel his cue to leave. He turned around and stormed in the direction of the Golden Hall, his small form taking the stairs two at a time. She and Cobryn watched him as he yanked at one of the doors and, upon succeeding in opening it, disappeared inside.

The moment he was out of sight, Gúthwyn's eyes began watering. "What is wrong with him?" she pressed Cobryn, wiping the tears away. "Why is he doing this?"

"I do not know," Cobryn answered, his gaze narrowed. "Yet regardless of what the case may be, his behavior was inexcusable."

"He hates me," she whispered, staring at the ground. "He must know about Haldor… he thinks I am a whore…"

"Gúthwyn, you are _not_ a whore," Cobryn said adamantly, lifting her chin and looking her straight in the eye. "You never asked for what Haldor did to you, and anyone who believes otherwise is a fool of the worst kind."

She turned away, unable to bear the shame. Cobryn knew nothing of how she had willfully sought Haldor's embrace after Borogor's death; he was unaware that she had made love to the very Elf who had broken her, that she had begged him for pleasure and found it while he was inside of her.

"It matters not," she murmured, a lump in her throat that persisted no matter how hard she swallowed. "I just…" Trailing off, she shook her head. "We should be heading back. It is late."

Cobryn studied her closely, but when she said nothing further he nodded in assent. They returned to the Golden Hall in silence, neither of them saying a word until they were safely in the throne room. It was then that Gúthwyn stirred and thanked him. He waved away the accompanying apologies.

"I am just glad that we found him," he responded, "though I am not pleased with his attitude."

Gúthwyn sighed. "I wish I knew what was troubling him," she said, "for it cannot possibly be Aldeth alone."

Cobryn's expression was grim. "No, it is not," he agreed. "I think now that it was wrong for me to single him out and educate him so intensively. It has alienated him from the other children his age, and given him an arrogance in his dealings with you that is highly improper."

"Then it is my fault," Gúthwyn said, "for I was the one who encouraged it, and had I not given my permission to you none of this would have happened."

"He may yet leave this phase," Cobryn answered. "In the meantime, do not blame yourself for his actions. I fear they are quite out of your—or even my—hands."

The thought did not comfort Gúthwyn at all. "I pray that soon he will change," she said fervently.

"He might," Cobryn replied. "He just might."

The two of them parted, and Gúthwyn slipped down the corridor leading to her chambers. She passed Hammel's room, the door resolutely shut against her, and recalled how he had mysteriously injured his hand. Worry swept through her. What could he possibly have been doing that would have covered his palm in soot? Had he lit a fire somehow, and tried to put it out himself?

Perturbed, Gúthwyn entered her chambers and went straight to the washing basin. Gathering the pitcher, a washcloth, and some bandages, she went back into the hallway and stopped before Hammel's quarters. Knocking softly, she called, "Hammel?"

There was no answer. Sighing, Gúthwyn closed her hand around the doorknob and attempted to open it, but it had been locked.

"Hammel," she tried again, raising her voice as loud as she could without waking Haiweth.

The boy still did not respond.

"Hammel, please, open the door," Gúthwyn spoke, her words taking on a begging tone.

"What do you want?" he demanded harshly, making her cringe.

"I have something to help your burn," Gúthwyn replied, tightening her grip on the bandages.

She could almost hear Hammel dismissing her. He did not say anything, and even while she called his name the stony silence forbade her from doing so. The quiet was like a whip cracking on her heart; its wielder did not see how her hopeful features wilted, nor how her entire body was soon wracked with the struggle not to sob.

"I-I am just going to leave it outside the door," Gúthwyn managed at last, her voice fading. Fighting back tears, she bent down and arranged the items on the floor. _I will have his lock removed tomorrow,_ she decided—and yet that could only strain their relationship even more.

A moment later, Gúthwyn crawled back into bed. _As if things were not bad enough,_ she thought, _tomorrow I shall have to play my part in hosting the court of Dol Amroth and Legolas._

The weight of such a prospect was enormous, but not half of what the small, slender boy had brought upon her. Burying her face in her pillow so that no one would hear her misery, Éomund's daughter curled up into a ball and cried herself to sleep.


	79. A Fleeting Image

**A/N:** Sorry for taking so long to update! School pretty much ate me alive last week, and the chapter I was working on was one of those awful ones that give you writer's blocks every few sentences. I hope this long one makes up for it!

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Seventy-Nine:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Seventy-Nine**

The next day, the lock on Hammel's room was removed. As an afterthought, Gúthwyn had the same done to Haiweth, although the girl's conduct had rarely been unsatisfactory. Haiweth did not particularly seem to care, but Hammel left Meduseld upon learning what had been done, and did not return for the rest of the morning. Gúthwyn longed to seek him out, but unfortunately she did not have the time with which to do so.

She was kept busy from the moment Cobryn roused her at a Valar-forsaken hour, as there were many things that needed to be done before the Golden Hall was fit to host Prince Imrahil and those traveling with him. An elaborate feast was undergoing preparation, but because her cooking skills were woefully inadequate she helped the maids clean out all the spare bedrooms, assisted the servants in arranging all the tables in a convenient manner, and finally joined Éomer in putting away Théodred's things so that Prince Imrahil could use their cousin's old chambers.

Normally, Gúthwyn's spirits would have dampened after such an activity, but no sooner had she retreated to her room than Éomer knocked on it, his voice somewhat panicked as he relayed to her the recent tidings that a great entourage of nobles had insisted upon accompanying Imrahil, and thus not only did they not have enough food, but they had nowhere to house the ladies who would undoubtedly be expecting comfortable lodgings.

After several moments of harried fretting, they at last decided to erect large, kingly tents outside the city, so that even if the quarters were rough they were by no means paltry. Gúthwyn spoke with the cook and discovered that there were a number of dishes that could be made on short notice, in addition to the fact that they had ingredients in abundance and need not worry. The farmers around Edoras were then sent messages announcing the sudden change in the number of guests, and offering them financial compensation in return for a larger amount of food.

This month, Gúthwyn knew, would cost her brother far more than either of them cared to admit. Though their situation was not uncomfortable, they certainly did not have enough to live as lavishly as the nobles in Dol Amroth did, and entertaining them would be an expensive burden. Already Éomer had met with his advisors to discuss various ways in which they could make up for all the money they would be spending; after all, winter would come sooner than they thought, and an extravagant series of feasts was not worth starving the people.

Privately, Gúthwyn lamented the coming of the nobles, and while Lothíriel was overseeing the placement charts for the guests she complained about the forthcoming event. "Why did they feel it necessary to come?" she asked Éomer in an undertone as they relaxed for a moment at one of the tables with Elfwine. The baby was quite content to be seated in between them, and now and again whacked their thighs in an impatient bid for attention.

"Because they wish to see Lothíriel again," Éomer replied, ruffling his son's locks.

Gúthwyn steeled herself against repeating Faramir's words concerning his cousin's difficulty in securing friendships. "That may be, and I have no qualms with the lords, but must their wives come also? You know as well as I do that we shall have to set up another tent merely for their clothing."

"_You_ can do without finery," Éomer said, pride evident in his voice as he looked at her, "yet it is not in the nature of these women to be without their comforts."

Gúthwyn gave a long sigh, feeling somewhat guilty for expressing her opinion so freely but positively dreading the ladies' arrival. "The inconvenience of hosting them," she said, "is too great for any pleasure to be taken from it. And when you consider how little they shall contribute—I bet amongst a score of them we will not hear more than two words of sense throughout the duration of the visit!"

Éomer laughed heartily at this. He was joined by Elfwine, though the baby did not understand what was so funny. "You really are too harsh on your own gender," her brother remarked, still chuckling. "Might I remind you that you also are a lady of high standing?"

"Éowyn would agree with me," Gúthwyn insisted adamantly, "and she is the princess of Ithilien!"

Éomer looked at her amusedly. "That is what I love about my sisters," he spoke at length, grinning: "that they have been raised so that they are free from the constraints of noblewomen, and thus are so far above them in character that it is almost absurd."

Gúthwyn giggled at this. "While they may be entertaining to you, _I_ shall have to suffer their conversation, which will be as stifling as the gown I have to wear at the feast."

"It looks wonderful on you," Éomer said in mild indignation. Upon learning of her intent to wear an ordinary grey dress that morning, he had marched into her chambers and chosen for her a light blue one, only refraining from a similar garment in white because she had threatened not to attend the dinner. Unfortunately, her bargaining had won her an item of clothing with so much lacing that it would take hours to don.

Gúthwyn's expression was bordering on foul as she exclaimed, "It is all but a prison!"

Elfwine scrambled onto her lap, happily echoing her words and more than content to play with her hair. Smiling at his antics, Gúthwyn kissed his head and hugged him close to her. He tolerated her attentions, and beamed at Éomer from the comfort of her arms.

"It could be worse," Éomer pointed out.

Gúthwyn rolled her eyes upwards. "_How?_"

"You could be wearing a corset."

The idea was mildly horrifying. "Lothíriel said—" she began, and then stopped, realizing that there were better things she could reveal to her brother than how his wife treated her when he was not around.

"She said what?" Éomer asked, once she showed no signs of continuing.

Gúthwyn swallowed, and quickly fibbed, "She said that they are wonderful for your figure, but I would rather keep the extra few inches on my waist than suffocate."

"You barely have a waist, sister," Éomer muttered, shooting her a pointed glare. "Although," he conceded, "your eating habits have drastically improved, as others have noticed."

Gúthwyn flushed. She had been receiving several compliments on her appearance lately, for she had gained some weight and did not look so shrunken and pale as she had during the months of the negotiations with Prince Imrahil. She was also sleeping better at night, something that went unnoticed by all except her and Cobryn, but still had a marked effect on her happiness.

"Gúthy, Gúthy, Gúthy," Elfwine chanted, placing a wet kiss on her cheek. Éomund's daughter laughed and tickled him, eliciting shrieks of delight.

"I believe Legolas is also planning to arrive today," Éomer said then, glancing at her to gauge her reaction.

"Excellent," Gúthwyn said cheerfully, her heart only skipping half a beat. "Do we have a room for him, as well?"

Her brother was clearly taken aback by her response. "This… This does not bother you at all?" he asked dubiously, now openly scrutinizing her.

"No," Gúthwyn answered promptly, bending over to tickle Elfwine's chin so that Éomer could not see her flushed features. So what if her heart, having recovered, was now beating faster than before? It would quell itself—it must.

Éomer's words were laced with suspicion as he said, "Unfortunately, there are no other chambers on our side. I was thinking that we could have him stay in Hammel's room, if he would not mind being moved."

Gúthwyn's head snapped upwards. "What?"

Sheer, unquenchable waves of terror flooded through her, so that for a moment she could do nothing but stare at her brother. Elfwine fussed in her arms, detecting her anxiety.

Éomer's expression was apologetic. "I am sorry, baby sister," he said. "Yet Lothíriel would want her father to receive the most spacious lodgings we have, and those are Théodred's quarters. And while neither Imrahil nor Legolas would mind being in Hammel's room, I do not want Imrahil to think that…"

He trailed off, but Gúthwyn knew very well what his thoughts were. Swallowing, she whispered, "I suppose… I-I shall have to tell Hammel."

"If there were any alternative, I would take it," Éomer promised, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Will it affect your sleeping?"

Gúthwyn bit her lip and shook her head. "No," she lied, and the next instant cursed herself for her weakness. _Legolas is a friend,_ she told herself for what felt like the thousandth time. _Stop being so afraid of him! He has never given you any reason to distrust him—on the contrary, he has done everything to earn your faith. The fact that his chambers will only be a few feet away from yours should not change anything!_

No, she was not frightened. She was not. She was not.

"Gúthwyn?"

Starting, she glanced up to see Éomer watching her concernedly. "I am fine," she quickly said. "I merely was lost in my thoughts. Elfwine, are you looking forward to seeing Grandfather Imrahil?"

"Eem-hill," Elfwine agreed, clapping his hands together. "Want Eem-hill."

Smiling at this, and struggling to banish the shadow that had fallen over her heart, Gúthwyn asked, "What of your uncles? Elphir, Erchirion, and Amrothos?"

Elfwine looked up at her with a frown on his face. "Effir," he repeated dubiously. "Erch… Erch…"

Gúthwyn decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. "How about Amrothos?" she prodded, when her nephew appeared to have fallen silent.

"No," Elfwine said flatly, and stuck several of her locks in his mouth.

"Elfwine!" Éomer said warningly. Gúthwyn gently removed her hair from the baby's grasp.

"Hands, little one," she reminded him, and then resumed their conversation. "You also have a cousin," she remarked, grinning at the memory of Elphir's son. "His name is Alphros, and he is six years older than you. Your uncle Elphir is his father."

Elfwine tried to repeat Alphros's name, but got stuck halfway through and soon forgot what he was trying to pronounce. This caused Gúthwyn a great deal of mirth; when she glanced at Éomer, she could not stop her mouth from quivering, nor stifle a small laugh.

"Alphros may be too difficult," she at last conceded. "Can you say Éomer instead?"

"Mer."

Gúthwyn snorted. "How about Lothíriel?"

"Mama."

Éomund's daughter tried for another minute, but when there was no improvement she let it go.

"Is that what you are wearing tonight?" Éomer asked then, his tone highly disapproving.

Looking down at herself, Gúthwyn saw a grey dress that had been Éowyn's when her sister was fourteen. There were a few spots on the sleeves that smelled strongly of the polish she had used whilst helping the maids clean the tables.

"I suppose… not?"

"Then I would suggest changing," Éomer said sternly, "for they should be arriving in a couple of hours."

"I will be more than happy to," Gúthwyn replied, "as long as I do not have to wear something with as much lacing as the gown I shall be forced into tomorrow."

Éomer had specifically planned the welcoming feast—to which all the Rohirrim had been invited—for the next day, as he knew his guests would wish to recover their strength after a long journey. Gúthwyn was relieved that she still had time with which to convince him that the ridiculous gown was not worth its adornment, but she highly doubted that he could be persuaded in the matter. It was, after all, Lothíriel's father.

She was right. "Being presentable is hardly taxing," Éomer said sharply. "I ask little enough of you as it is."

He might as well have slapped her.

"I-I am sorry," Gúthwyn murmured, her face paling. Her lower lip trembled, but she angrily bit the inside of her cheek to curb her weakness. "I-I did not…"

Éomer sighed. "Nay, baby sister—"

"I-I should go," Gúthwyn said, overwhelmed with a sudden surge of both guilt and grief. Her brother was right—he was remarkably undemanding of her. And for her to be so stubborn over so small a thing…

Éomer tried to say something, but when she kissed Elfwine on the brow and removed him from her lap, the baby's loud screech of "Gúthy!" covered it.

"E-Excuse me," she muttered, rising to her feet. Before Éomer could stop her, she left the great hall, making her way towards her own room. Her objections to wearing the dress had not been that strong, but evidently they had displeased her brother. And invoking his anger—however fleeting—was something that she hated to do. He had given her and the children a place to live for years; aside from marriage and clothing choices, what had he requested of her in return?

_Nothing,_ she told herself, drawing in a shaky breath. _You should be grateful that this is so. A gown is hardly something to get into an argument over._

Sighing as she entered her chambers, Gúthwyn went to her wardrobe and opened it. The contents of it stared menacingly at her, almost as if daring her to reach all the way into the back and pull out one of the white garments.

"I will not," she whispered defiantly, but then changed her mind. In one swift motion, she yanked the offending gowns off of their hangers. Her pace almost hysterical, she nearly tore an empty drawer from its hinges as she stuffed the unwanted clothes inside.

_There,_ she thought, breathing heavily as she slammed the drawer shut. _Now I only lack a fire._

A sort of savage pleasure wound its way through her as she imagined tossing the cursed fabric into a roaring blaze, but it quickly deflated when she pictured the expression that would fall on Éomer's face.

_I should be choosing a gown,_ she berated herself, _not destroying them._

With another sigh, she half-heartedly began to weigh her options. Éomer would likely want her to wear formal garb, since he desired to impress Imrahil, but two nights in a row of such attire was a dismal prospect. Then again, she did not wish to attract any attention for being too casual. Even Cobryn was planning on changing into a neat tunic and dressier leggings—this was almost certainly due to his keen respect for the Prince of Dol Amroth.

Groaning, she buried her face in her hands. Who _cared_ what she wore? It was such a frivolous detail, so unimportant in the grand scheme of life, that she nearly screamed in frustration. She was vastly relieved that she had been spared this eternal torture: had she been forced into a marriage with Elphir, she might very well have killed herself after a few months' time.

However, her wardrobe did not move, and at length she irritably took out her favorite green dress and changed into it, closing the door first. _If Éomer does not think this suitable,_ she decided angrily, _he can throw a tantrum for all I care._

With that done, she sat down on her bed, crossed her arms over her chest, and spent several moments absolutely infuriated over how men did not have to suffer these annoyances. Yet though it certainly pleased the vindictive side of Éomund's daughter, it was rather a waste of time, and after awhile she started to feel ashamed of herself. _Really,_ she thought, getting up and pacing for a bit, _there are better things you could be thinking about._

Such as Elphir. Up until now, she had never considered what she would do when she at last saw him again. She had always assumed that it would involve him explaining how busy he had been over the past year—with firm vows to renew their correspondence—and end with friendship on both sides. Their relationship would return to its normal manner, and she would never have to worry about the possibility of him asking her to be his wife.

As she stood there, however, staring detachedly in the mirror, she realized that there was still the matter of why he had decided not to marry her. For, even if his romantic feelings for her had vanished, and were replaced by the familiar ones of a close acquaintance, she doubted that he would have decided to abandon the negotiations. Obviously, he had lost all regard for her; but _why?_

She would have to find an occasion on which she could speak to him alone. Then, the entire mess would be sorted out. His cold silence over the past several months, despite her attempts at reconciliation, would ultimately be explained. There _had_ to be a reason that she was not considering. Perhaps it was not customary for those soon to be wed to exchange letters. Éomer had never harbored any complaints about the practice—then again, Rohan was hardly the center of high society and its endless rules about etiquette.

Almost instinctively, she knelt down beside her drawers. Her fingers closed around the handles of the last one; gently, she prized it open, and pushed aside Chalibeth and Borogor's cloaks to find the familiar black book. She still had time left before she was required to wait outside for their guests; the memory of how she had almost been the wife of one of them now made her turn to recollections of the man she would have married in a heartbeat.

Her eyes remained determinedly dry as she read "The Warrior." She saw this as a victory, one miniscule sign of her strength when she was constantly presented with evidence to the contrary. She had not cried for Borogor—she could not. Her grief for him was still such that tears were unable to express it. If only she had not been so foolish…

_It is no use dwelling on what might have been,_ she told herself sternly. _Nothing can change the past. He is dead. Tormenting yourself with thoughts of him will not bring him back!_

All the same, she could not help but see him before her; nor could she stop herself from imagining his fingers intertwined with hers, his mouth gently pressed against her own. As she sunk further into his embrace, she closed her eyes and bit her lip to keep from moaning. What she would not give to feel his warmth against her, to be his wife and share her home with him… She would even tolerate having to make love to him, all for the sake of a little child…

"My lady?"

Gúthwyn jumped, twisted around guiltily before she remembered that she had shut the door. Her face paled somewhat as she recognized Cwene's voice: ever since the woman had seen her naked, she had become so tongue-tied in the maid's presence that conversation was no longer possible. Swallowing, she hastily put Beregil's book away and closed the drawer.

"C-Come in," she stammered, rising to her feet.

The door opened and Cwene stepped into the room. "Would you like any assistance in getting ready?" she asked.

Gúthwyn glanced at the mirror. Her hair was in need of brushing… but she was more than capable of doing that herself. "N-No thank… No thank you," she said, clenching and unclenching her fists in embarrassment.

Cwene inclined her head and gave a brief curtsy. "As you wish," she replied, unusually submissive.

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to say something, but already Cwene was leaving the room. Sighing, Éomund's daughter decided that she would not have had the courage to speak properly anyway, and whatever she was able to get out would likely have made no sense. Her spirits more than a little deflated, she located her comb and began to run it through her locks. With each stroke, she encountered numerous tangles.

It took the better part of fifteen minutes, but at long last her hair was somewhat decent. Gúthwyn set down the brush, exhaling as she examined her reflection. Compared to other women in the city, she was a lot smaller in stature. Most of her companions were a foot taller than her, and she would not have been surprised if it was discovered that she had the flattest chest out of any female older than thirteen.

The latter observation had never troubled her in the slightest, but ever since Lothíriel had made a derogatory remark to her concerning her breasts she had been far more aware of their size. Even now, she did not see what was so important about being voluptuous. It seemed as if the only benefit was that it attracted men, and that in her eyes was not a benefit at all. Some of the younger women at the washing circles spoke of wearing low-cut dresses specifically to gain the attention of a desired warrior, but the idea made Gúthwyn queasy and she had left them early.

When she was in Mordor, Haldor had never seemed to take pleasure in her nakedness. He caressed her only where it would terrify her the most, and watched her for the sole purpose of cowing her under his gaze. She could only recall a few occurrences in which he had touched her breasts. One night, he had not violated her, but instead had forced her to lie with her back pressed against his chest, so that she could feel his hardness against her. From there his hands had roamed all over her, until she was nearly sick with shame and was shaking with tears that she was too afraid to shed.

The memory was enough to make Gúthwyn want to vomit. How she hated him, and the way he had let his fingers play cruelly in between her legs. She had not been able to look Borogor in the face for days afterwards. And weeks later, the merest touch of a male had caused her to stiffen in dread. She had felt so disgusting, so contaminated, that she imagined the filth to still be lingering on her.

Her self-loathing reaching incredible heights, Gúthwyn lifted her head to stare into the mirror, half-expecting to see herself covered in grime. What she saw instead, however, was Éomer leaning against the doorframe and surveying her.

With a gasp, she simultaneously whirled around and stepped away from him, nearly stumbling into her mirror as a result. "Éomer!" she cried as he leaped forward, though he could not steady her at so far a distance. "What were you doing? How long were you there?"

"Not ten seconds," Éomer said, sounding puzzled. "I was about to compliment your appearance."

Gúthwyn took several deep breaths, struggling to calm herself. Her heart was beating rapidly. "Th-Thank you," she at last whispered, exhaling slowly.

"Are you all right?" Éomer asked concernedly. "I did not mean to startle you."

Shaking her head, Gúthwyn answered, "I-I am fine."

Éomer did not seem particularly convinced, but he let the matter go. "Sister," he began, sighing, "I wanted to apologize for being so harsh to you earlier."

"It was nothing—"

"No," Éomer interrupted her, holding up his hand and drawing closer. "It was inappropriate, and I was wrong to say what I did."

"But you were right," Gúthwyn said miserably, a lump forming in her throat as she spoke. "You require nothing of me. I should not have complained, I was not—"

"Gúthwyn, listen to me," Éomer ordered, putting his hands on her shoulders. "It was my fault. I have been so wrapped up in these preparations that it takes very little to irritate me these days. You are my baby sister, and I would never want you to think that I begrudge your staying here. Do you understand?"

More relieved than he could possibly guess, Gúthwyn nodded, and felt a genuine smile spread across her face. "Yes," she murmured.

"Good," Éomer said, embracing her. She hugged him back, glad that he no longer was angry with her. At length he let her go, ruffling her hair before he did so.

Gúthwyn made a distinctively protesting sound. "I just spent a quarter of an hour brushing this!"

Éomer laughed. "Trust me," he said: "you look wonderful." His face hardened as he added, "Elphir shall regret his idiocy."

"Maybe," Gúthwyn responded, after looking away for a brief moment. While it was of little importance whether the prince lamented his decision or not, she sincerely hoped that he would not reconsider it. "But even if he does, his words will fall on deaf ears."

"Aye," Éomer agreed, his expression dark. "A thousand horses could not buy him my favor now."

Gúthwyn smiled at this. "What about a million?" she questioned.

"No."

She chuckled, and then hedged, "Then that is good, for I do not think I wish to become betrothed again anytime soon."

Éomer nodded, although she was not sure whether he got the hint or whether he was just sorry for her. It was likely the latter.

These suspicions were only confirmed when he patted her on the back and said, "Do not worry, baby sister. Your time will come."

Gúthwyn's heart all but collapsed at his words. "I am not a baby," she muttered, trying to keep the mood light. Inside, however, her mind and body were screaming, _Again? You would put me through this again, brother, after everything you hoped for came to naught? After Elphir, in your words, humiliated me? What makes you think you can arrange a marriage for me, when I have told you unswervingly that I have no desire to find a husband?_

"You always will be to me," Éomer said fondly. Gúthwyn forbade herself from screaming.

"Éomer?"

The two siblings glanced up to see Lothíriel outside in the hallway, Elfwine resting on her hip and a harried look worn into her cheeks. "They have entered the city!" she exclaimed. "We should have been outside by now!"

Éomer's eyes widened. "Already?" he demanded. "Then let us make haste!"

Gúthwyn trailed after her brother and his wife, occupying herself by contorting her face for Elfwine, who was watching her from over Lothíriel's shoulder. The baby giggled so much that eventually his mother twisted her head to see what was so amusing; when her gaze fell on Gúthwyn, who was in the middle of sticking her tongue out, she rolled her eyes and turned around again.

There was a great commotion throughout the throne room. Servants were scurrying to and fro, setting out the last of the plates in anticipation of the guests. Lothíriel ordered some of them to quicken their steps, making the victims jump at least a foot in the air before they resumed their tasks—this time, with their heads bent against further criticism.

As they emerged outside, the light stung at Gúthwyn's eyes and she blinked, momentarily distracted from Elfwine. When she put her hand over her brow, she was able to see that a great crowd of people had gathered in the street. Their chatter was loud and excited, although it did not seem to please Lothíriel, who bore an exasperated expression. Gúthwyn marveled that her brother's wife could be so intolerant of her own people, but she did not think it best to say anything.

While they were waiting, she saw Cobryn step out onto the landing, both of the children in tow. When she waved to him, he brought them over, and at her bidding stood beside her, though he warned that others might not deem it prudent. "The court of Dol Amroth will not understand why you are next to a man and two children, when just recently you were in negotiations to marry their prince," he cautioned.

"Who cares?" Gúthwyn retorted, placing her hand on Haiweth's shoulder. "Let them gossip."

Cobryn looked as if he had half a mind to say something, but decided not to.

"What kind of dresses will they be wearing?" Haiweth wanted to know, her face lit up eagerly.

Gúthwyn laughed. "I do not know, little one," she answered, kissing her on the brow. She did not have to bend: Haiweth was now less than an inch shorter than her. "I expect we shall see many of them when they arrive."

Hammel rolled his eyes and went to move away from them, but Cobryn reached out and grabbed him by the arm just before he could slip out of sight. "Stay here," he commanded.

Furiously, Hammel yanked himself out of Cobryn's grasp, yet he did not attempt to leave again. Gúthwyn had not tried speaking to him since he found out that he was to give up his room for Legolas; she knew that this, combined with the fact that she had removed his lock, would make it a long time before he had gotten over his anger sufficiently enough to talk to her. The knowledge was difficult to bear, but she could only hope that he would eventually grow out of this phase.

Sighing, she focused her attention on the road ahead of her. She could hear the cheering of her people just around a curve in the street, so the delegation must have been close. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she prayed that whatever happened, this visit would not be as terrible as she was anticipating it to be.

Unfortunately for her, the Valar were not listening that day.

"There they are!" one of the civilians close to the Golden Hall cried, and Lothíriel straightened so noticeably that Gúthwyn could have sworn she gained an inch or two in height. Éomer smiled reassuringly at her, letting his arm rest on her waist. Elfwine attempted to play with her hair, completely oblivious to the excitement around him, but she placed it out of his reach.

And then, slowly, Prince Imrahil came into view. Age had treated him well. Although he was in his late sixties, he was clearly in good health, sitting straight-backed on his horse and gazing with keen eyes at the party awaiting him on the stairs of Meduseld. Now and again he waved at the people, but his attention was centered on Lothíriel and the child she held in her arms.

Behind him were the sons. Gúthwyn's eyes flicked over Erchirion and Amrothos, barely noticing them at all, and came to rest on Elphir. His features were blank of all expression, and he barely looked around him. She willed him to glance at her, but while he must have known that she was there, he too was fixated by his sister. Unlike Imrahil, however, he hardly appeared to see her.

Slightly put out, Gúthwyn nevertheless reminded herself that there was plenty of time to find out why he had decided to ignore her for almost an entire year. In order to stop herself from watching him too closely, she turned her focus onto the entourage behind the princes.

It was all she could to keep from groaning. Row upon row of nobles, their ladies preening at their sides, were filing into the city upon their equally proud horses. There were more of them than she could possibly begin to count, and with a sinking heart Gúthwyn thought that even the tents they had provided would be hard-pressed to accommodate them all. Then it hardened, for she saw several of the women sneering at their surroundings. Evidently, the humble abodes of the commoners were almost unbearably beneath them.

_I swear,_ she found herself seething, _if any of them so much as breathes the wrong word about my people, they will sorely regret it!_

They were all garbed in fancy gowns—Haiweth let out a sigh of awe and desire—and even more extravagant jewels. Unlike Rohirric women, they rode their horses with both of their legs on the same side, a style that to Gúthwyn seemed meek and docile. They gossiped amongst themselves as they surveyed their surroundings, now and then tittering with derisive laughter that made her blood boil.

_I shall go mad within days,_ she thought despairingly. _How could Éomer possibly have agreed to have them all over?_

Just then, Elfwine let out a screech of laughter, drawing her attention immediately. When she looked at him, she saw that Imrahil was standing in front of him, smiling at his daughter's child.

"Old!" Elfwine cackled, reaching out to touch his beard.

Gúthwyn's face twitched as she struggled to contain her mirth. Éomer was torn between the same amusement and disapproval, though the former was clearly winning out. Imrahil, Erchirion, and Amrothos were less restrained and burst into laughter, yet Elphir merely smiled and Lothíriel seemed humiliated.

"Elfwine!" she scolded. "This is your grandfather!"

"Eem-hill," Elfwine beamed, nodding happily. "Pince Eem-hill."

He smiled impishly at the man.

"Well met, Elfwine," Imrahil replied, his eyes twinkling. "Well met, indeed."

By now, the others of the court had come to a halt behind him, and were indiscreetly leaning over to see Lothíriel's son. Gúthwyn saw the queen's cheeks turn slightly pink at their examination, but she nevertheless received her father's praise glowingly. Happy that Elfwine had taken well to Imrahil, Gúthwyn looked at Elphir, wondering if his apparent sternness had anything to do with her.

Before long, however, a prickling sensation along her spine told her that she was being watched. Confused, her glance moved over from Elphir and landed directly on Amrothos. Almost instantly, a wave of shock ran through her body. His eyes were fixed directly on her own. The dark, smoldering gaze was so bold, so unconcealed that her breath caught in her throat and she felt her face burning under his scrutiny. Quickly she wrenched her head away, staring at the ground as her heart thumped wildly in her chest.

_Did I just imagine that?_ she asked herself. _Or was he looking at the children?_

Surreptitiously, she shifted over so that Haiweth was less conspicuous from below.

"Gúthwyn!" Haiweth immediately complained, her voice pained as she stood on her tiptoes. "I cannot see anything!"

Taking a chance, Gúthwyn raised her head so that she might catch another glimpse of Amrothos. He was chuckling at something Elfwine had just done, his face joyful as the baby waved his hands in the air. There was no trace of the possessiveness that had terrified her just seconds ago; on the contrary, he did not seem capable of it. Éomund's daughter was forced to concede that she must have been hallucinating.

"I am sorry, little one." She exhaled and stepped aside. _What a fool I am,_ she mused bitterly. _Amrothos has no reason to gape at me._ She thought she knew now what she had actually seen: a memory of Haldor, echoing in even the tamest of circumstances, determined to make her a coward for the rest of her life. She grew ashamed of her weakness, and strove to ignore the adrenaline still pumping through her veins.

Just then, she became aware of Éomer calling her. "Sister!" he exclaimed, upon seeing her standing beside Cobryn and the children. Elphir's face suddenly became mask-like, so that she could almost feel the sternness radiating from his gaze. "Please, join us."

"Gúthy!" Elfwine demanded, squirming in Lothíriel's arms.

Obediently, Gúthwyn made her way through the servants, most of which did not see her in their eagerness to observe the court of Dol Amroth until she was excusing herself from pushing in between them. When at last she arrived next to her brother, an awkward silence fell, in which the tensions amongst the group thrived.

"My lord," Gúthwyn at last managed, remembering the proper etiquette and curtsying to Prince Imrahil.

He bowed. "My lady Gúthwyn," he spoke as he straightened. "You look wonderful."

Gúthwyn flushed. "Thank you," she replied, and dared to glance at Elphir. "My lord," she said hesitantly, offering a cautious curtsy.

For a long time, Elphir stared at her coldly. He was unrecognizable from the man who had once complimented her about her fighting prowess, who had introduced her to his son and conversed animatedly with her for hours on end. Now there was only ice, a distance between them that chilled her to the bone, though Éomer's wrath was crackling in the air. For nearly a full minute Elfwine's babbling was the only sound that could be heard. At long last, when Gúthwyn was red with embarrassment, Imrahil coughed pointedly.

"Gúthwyn," Elphir finally acknowledged, almost spitting the word out. The disgust with which he spoke astounded her. For a moment she did not know what to say, and looked pleadingly to Éomer for help. Unfortunately, her brother did not seem to have any words either: his jaw was twitching, as was a muscle in his sword-arm.

"Well," Lothíriel began at length, her words cheerful in an attempt to gloss over the situation, "shall we retire inside? The cooks have prepared a wonderful feast, and it would not do to have it grow cold."

"I cannot say no to a good meal," Imrahil said. "We have ridden far this morning, although I think"—he lowered his voice—"some of your friends may have been taxed too hard, daughter."

Lothíriel's upper lip curled. "I am sure they were," she responded wryly.

Imrahil smirked at this, and then turned to Gúthwyn. "Forgive me for not asking this earlier," he said, "but how are the children?"

Gúthwyn felt some of her unease disappear as she answered, "Excellent! Haiweth is working hard at her drawings, and Hammel—" She faltered for a moment, realizing that she did not really know what Hammel was doing anymore. Yet she stumbled only for a few seconds until she finished, "Hammel is continuing to flourish in his studies."

"That is good to hear," Imrahil said approvingly. "From what I heard, he has quite a collection of books."

Gúthwyn nodded, smiling. "I daresay he is trying to accumulate an entire library's worth."

"We could use them," Éomer chuckled. "As Lothíriel discovered (much to her dismay), my uncle was rather lacking in books—although he had more than enough about horse-breeding and warfare."

Laughing, Imrahil responded, "One can never have too many. I only wish I had more time to read!"

Gúthwyn, who had not picked up a book once in the past week, remained silent.

After a few more exchanges about literature, the party agreed to head inside, and began making its way up the stairs. Gúthwyn found herself walking next to Elphir, but before she could strike up a conversation he stopped and let her pass by. When she turned back to marvel at this behavior, simultaneously moving over to avoid the nobles and ladies now starting to follow their rulers, she saw that he was waiting for Alphros. The boy had been lingering near the horses with a harried maid, and quickly took the opportunity to reunite with his father.

"Papa, I am hungry," Alphros said after embracing Elphir. "Are we eating soon?"

"Yes, we are," Elphir replied, his voice barely audible over the chattering of the gentry. "Come, let us go into the hall. Remember what I said about behaving yourself."

Alphros nodded dutifully, but then he spotted Éomund's daughter. His eyes widened, and he tugged at Elphir's hand.

"Papa," he whispered, his voice unintentionally loud enough to carry all the way to Gúthwyn, "is that her?"

Elphir did not even look at her, though several of the women did, a fact which was acknowledged by exchanged glances of derision amongst themselves. "Let us go," the prince repeated, tight-lipped and straight-backed. "It is time to eat."

"But—"

"Alphros, _now,_" Elphir said warningly. Gúthwyn gaped at him, unable to believe that this was the same man that she had enjoyed such a close friendship with.

Alphros let out a loud sigh. "Fine," he muttered, but that did not stop him from examining Gúthwyn out of the corner of his eye. She offered him a tentative smile, which he returned, yet at that moment Elphir stepped between the two of them and blocked her view.

"Elphir—" she began, desperate to know what she had done to deserve his anger.

"Excuse me," he cut her off, and strode into the hall, Alphros trailing in his wake. Most of those around them averted their eyes, but a few openly stared and some of the younger ladies even giggled.

Gúthwyn stood there for few seconds, blinking in surprise. _What is going on?_ she wondered, utterly bewildered. _Why will he not talk to me?_

"My lady?"

Starting, she glanced up to see both of the guards watching her concernedly. They had evidently witnessed her exchange—or lack thereof—with Elphir, as an underlying awkwardness was in Ceorl's words as he inquired gently, "Is everything all right?"

Taking another deep breath, knowing that she would need many more of them in the near future, Gúthwyn counted to five briefly and responded, "I am fine, thank you."

With that, she inclined her head and went into the hall. Almost before she was upon the threshold, she accidentally stepped on one of the ridiculously long trains extending from the women's gowns, and received such a foul look that she was astonished at how rudely she was being treated in her own home.

_What have I ever done to these people?_ she asked herself.

Just then, she heard a low whisper behind her. "I see Lothíriel still has not taught her husband how to dress his sister."

Gúthwyn's head whipped around, but there was no sign of the culprit—simply a large group of happy couples entering the hall, conversing demurely with each other and gazing around at the interior.

_By the Valar,_ she thought, hastening her strides so that she outpaced them all, _this is going to be a long month._


	80. Virtuous Activities

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighty:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eighty**

When Gúthwyn reached the end of the long table that had been assembled to stretch across the entire hall, she found that Lothíriel had arranged the seats so that she was sitting as far away from her brother and Elfwine as was reasonably possible. Rather than dining at his right- or left-hand side, as she was accustomed to do, she was now stuck between Amrothos—seeing him gave her the shivers, though she realized it was her own paranoia that had cast him in so unfavorable a light—and a lady who perhaps had more jewels on her person than any other woman present.

Hammel and Haiweth were nowhere in sight. Before lowering herself into her chair, Gúthwyn scanned the room and discovered that they were at the complete opposite end of the table, next to Alphros and other children far younger than they. Haiweth did not seem to mind too much, but Hammel appeared as if he wished to kill himself.

_Where else did Lothíriel place those who might make this evening more tolerable?_ she thought, narrowing her eyes. Cobryn was located towards the middle of the benches—still no small distance away, leaving conversation out of the question—but his position did not lack honor, as he was seated with the other advisors. There were numerous empty plates, presumably for the Elves, and while one close to Éomer had a placard on it reading _Legolas,_ the others were not marked.

Gúthwyn sighed, glancing around at the rest of the guests. Elphir was not too far from her, although he was ignoring her entirely and speaking in a forced cheerfulness to Lothíriel, inquiring about the health of his nephew. Erchirion was beside him. The only three Rohirrim who occupied a place at the king's end were Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, and Gamling. For the most part, it was the nobles from Dol Amroth who were dining with them, as well as the endless myriads of exquisite women dressed in flimsy silk gowns.

Éomund's daughter did not want to even begin contemplating how one might ride in such a costume.

"Sister, please, sit!" Éomer encouraged her, a slight frown on his face when he realized how far away she was from him. He let it go, however, realizing that with all their highly-ranked visitors he had no choice but to accept it.

Gúthwyn nodded and would have sat down, but Amrothos rose from the table and stepped away so that it would be easier for her to get to her spot. "Lady Gúthwyn," he said, giving a short bow. It suddenly dawned on her just how tall he was: even moreso than Elphir and her brother. He certainly towered over her. The smile in his gaze did not quite meet his eyes.

"Th-Thank you," she remembered to say, and managed to seat herself without stumbling.

"Gúthy!" Elfwine shouted from across the table, and waved gleefully at her.

"Hello, little one," Gúthwyn replied, keeping her voice more subdued despite her singing heart. She returned the wave, and while Éomer and Imrahil smiled at the two of them, none of the prince's children seemed to find it amusing. The sole exception was Amrothos, who gave a slow grin that was more directed towards Éomund's daughter.

She flushed, recalling that in Dol Amroth her behavior was not often viewed as appropriate for a lady of her status. Sighing, she told herself that the court's visit would only be for a month. _Only a month,_ she repeated. _What is the worse that could happen?_

"Do allow me to introduce myself," the woman next to her spoke then, a laugh quivering on her lips as she looked at Gúthwyn. "I am Lady Míriel. My husband is Lord Tulkadan."

She gestured carelessly to the exceedingly handsome and undoubtedly rich man sitting beside her and then asked, "What might your name be? Silly me, I am afraid I am forgetful enough not to recall it. Lothíriel has mentioned you in passing."

Her voice was like silk, both smooth and lacking any substance.

"I am Gúthwyn," Éomund's daughter replied, checking her astonishment at this woman's manner of address. "Éomer is my brother."

"Oh! _Now_ I—" Lady Míriel paused, and gave a smile that could likely dazzle dozens of men if such an effect was desired. She was rather pretty, with long auburn hair and velvety green eyes, but Gúthwyn thought her skin pale as ice and her overtures hardly warmer. Her nostrils were slightly flared, as if she were struggling against wrinkling them. "How could I have been so foolish? _Everyone_ knows about you at home."

Gúthwyn doubted that any of what they heard was flattering, and did not dare to ask whether this was so. However, she did not know what to say instead, and settled on inquiring, "And how does Rohan appeal to you so far?"

"The horses are very pretty," Lady Míriel responded, declining when a servant offered her some appetizers. They would not be setting out the main course until Legolas and the other Elves arrived, but he had written to inform them that he would not tarry on the road. "Although, for myself, I would not be able to live in such close quarters with one!"

_I am sure you would not,_ Gúthwyn thought to herself, disliking this woman more and more with each sentence she spoke. "Well," she at last managed, "we hardly sleep with our horses, yet they are our close companions."

"I do not doubt that."

When her bland remark drew less than a friendly glance, Lady Míriel recovered quickly. "Do forgive me. I should have explained myself more clearly. When I had the good fortune to travel to Minas Tirith four years ago, naturally after the War, I marveled at the way your brother handled his steed! Such horsemanship is rarely to be found in Dol Amroth, though of course our princes are not lacking in their own talents—nor is my husband."

The last comment was solely for the benefit of Lord Tulkadan, who had begun to listen in on their conversation. He smiled thinly at this, and then said with a voice as smooth as his wife's, "My Lady Gúthwyn, it is a pleasure to meet you. While it was your sister who won renown at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, I have heard that you are quickly following in her footsteps! Your prowess with a sword was much talked about when Prince Imrahil last returned from your home."

Gúthwyn flushed at the paternalistic tone with which he spoke. He clearly did not think it a woman's place to be handling a weapon. "You are most kind, my lord," she nevertheless said, "and it is my pleasure. Yet I fear any reports about my talent were exaggerated, as they often become with distance."

Lord Tulkadan acknowledged this with an inclination of his head and an expression informing her that he fully expected this to be the case, but his wife interjected and asked how her latest sampler was coming.

"I… what?" Gúthwyn questioned, puzzled.

One of Lady Míriel's perfectly-shaped eyebrows made a delicate arch. "A sampler," she repeated.

Gúthwyn had not the faintest idea what she was talking about, and said as much. Lord Tulkadan coughed discreetly, and turned to his neighbor to inquire about a new book that had been printed recently. Lady Míriel, however, had no such tact. Her eyes widened in surprise and then delight, and as she laughed she called across the table to one of her friends, "Lady Aewen, Gúthwyn tells me that she does not know what a sampler is!"

The woman to whom her words were directed chuckled, the sound just as phony as Lady Míriel's. "She _must_ be jesting," she agreed, her eyes fixing on Gúthwyn's. Éomund's daughter had the feeling that she was on the verge of committing a social blunder.

"No, I am not," she replied, deliberately ignoring her mind's warning. "Perhaps it has a different name here. What is it?"

Lady Míriel stifled her derision—yet it remained all too evident in her gaze—and explained, "It is simply a piece of needlework that one stitches to prove their capabilities. After all, how are you to be confident of navigating social circles if you cannot even manage your fabric?"

"I am sure there are ways," Gúthwyn said dryly, resisting the urge to laugh at such absurdities. "I have never made a sampler, and I do not intend on starting now."

The indulgent smile was wiped off of Lady Míriel's face, and Gúthwyn got no more than two words out of her for the rest of the evening. Privately, she regarded this as no great loss, and turned her attentions to the upper end of the table where Éomer and Lothíriel were informing Imrahil of all Elfwine's latest doings.

"His vocabulary is expanding quite rapidly," Lothíriel said, a rare glow on her face as she gazed down at her son.

"Not horse," Elfwine offered, spotting a swan on Imrahil's tunic and pointing at it.

"Swan," Lothíriel explained. "Can you say swan, Elfwine?"

Elfwine stared at the bird for a moment and then said, "Mama!"

There was a round of laughter at this, and Elfwine appeared extraordinarily pleased with himself. When he was pressed to say swan again, he looked around the table, set his eyes on a target, and cried, "Gúthy!"

His maniacal giggles echoed in the air, but this time Lothíriel's amusement was rather forced.

"He has taken quite an attachment to my sister," Éomer said. "She often watches over him while we are at meetings."

"She has been very helpful," Lothíriel agreed, but Gúthwyn thought she could detect nothing short of resentment in the queen's tone. This time, Imrahil's eyes narrowed, but the action was almost imperceptible and no one noticed besides Éomund's daughter.

"You seem to have quite a way with children," someone commented then, and Gúthwyn started before seeing that Amrothos had turned to her.

"Oh," she said, blushing. "Thank you, but—"

"What of your own?" he interrupted her. "Are they here tonight?"

Gúthwyn frowned. "Yes, they are at the other end of this table. But I am not their mother."

"Ah, of course. I had forgotten," Amrothos murmured, inclining his head deferentially.

The servants circled around them, offering more starters. Gúthwyn politely refused, having actually been interested in one of the dishes that was to be put out for dinner and desiring to save her appetite. She viewed this as an accomplishment on her part.

"I hear you have been keeping yourself busy," Amrothos said conversationally, helping himself to a glass of wine that had been poured for him.

"I… I suppose I have," Gúthwyn answered slowly, not understanding what he might have been referring to, or why he would have taken an interest in her personal life. "Although I am sure I am nowhere near as occupied as you are."

Amrothos chuckled at this. "I doubt that is the case," he said.

Feeling more bewildered by the minute, Gúthwyn did not respond and instead stared at her plate. Perhaps she was more unused to conversing with strangers (which was what the prince might as well have been) than she thought, for a distinct sense of unease was weaving itself through her mind.

Determined not to cast Amrothos in such an unfavorable light, she attempted to change the subject. "I trust your journey was safe, my lord?"

"It was," he replied, his eyes not leaving hers even when he took another drink from his goblet. "And it was made all the more faster by the thought of what lay at its end."

Gúthwyn smiled. "Well, you have not seen Lothíriel in a long time," she agreed, and glanced over to where the queen's son was bouncing happily in his mother's lap. "Is Elfwine not adorable?"

"Of course he is, his looks come from our side," Amrothos said with a wink. Gúthwyn knew that he was jesting, but she could not think of an appropriate response and grew flustered.

Luckily—or not so luckily, as it turned out—she was prevented scrambling for something to say by a servant rushing past her. "I beg your pardon, my lord," he interrupted Éomer, who was in the middle of recounting one of Elfwine's exploits, "but the Elves have passed through the gates."

"Excellent!" Éomer cried, setting down his tankard. "The more, the merrier."

Gúthwyn cringed, but otherwise did not let her discomfort show as both her brother and Prince Imrahil rose to their feet.

"It has been long since I have seen Legolas," Imrahil informed Éomer, his eyes darting eagerly to the doors. "He expressed an interest in learning more of Dol Amroth and our customs—he noticed immediately that there was an Elvish air about my people."

Gúthwyn did not see how this could be the case at all. Sitting between Amrothos and Lady Míriel, she felt as if the room were growing smaller with each utterly polite and boring sentence. Yet the Valar cared not for such anxiety, and within a few moments the doors were being pulled open. At a reassuring nod from Éomer, Gúthwyn stood up, nearly knocking her chair over in the process.

Even though Lady Míriel exchanged a dark glance with her husband, Éomund's daughter soon forgot all her clumsiness as Legolas and the other Elves entered the room. A hush fell upon the delegation from Dol Amroth, though the Rohirrim were more used to the presence of the fair folk and did not stare as much. Gúthwyn alone felt her stomach tie itself in knots, regardless of how she strove to maintain a calm composure.

Legolas's appearance had not changed in the slightest. Nay, he was still a vivid reminder of Haldor, in everything from his quietly surveying eyes to the golden hair that glinted in the sunlight streaming down from the windows. Again, Gúthwyn noted a number of maids giggling as he passed them by. She flushed, recalling how she too had been taken in by Haldor's looks and won eternal suffering for her stupidity.

Although the guest was to greet his host first, as etiquette decreed, Legolas's gaze rested on her for a brief moment as he approached Éomer. He nodded, a gesture she barely managed to return without turning red. Under the sudden scrutiny of half the Dol Amroth women, she fidgeted with her dress, determinedly examining the cracks in the wooden floor.

Despite the fact that she was not watching Legolas, she was able to hear him exchanging greetings with her brother. In such an informal setting, their remarks were considerably more casual than they normally were. Legolas apologized for keeping the guests waiting, and Éomer replied jovially that they had hardly been inside for ten minutes when word came of his imminent arrival.

After the prince of Eryn Lasgalen had spoken to Imrahil, the two of them and Éomer seated themselves, signifying to Gúthwyn that she could do the same. Her heart hammered in her chest, for Legolas's placard was positioned so that he would be located diagonally and one spot to the left from her. It was not far enough so that conversation amongst them would be inconsiderate to the people in between.

Only adding to her unease was the fact that the other Elves were situated in a group not too far down the table. No sooner had she become aware of this than she was ashamed; she was so afraid, so cowardly, over so small a thing. _Forget about them,_ she told herself sternly, taking a deep breath. _You _can_ forget about them._

Such a resolution, however, was a difficult step that she feared she had not the strength to attempt. This was only enforced when she glanced over and saw Legolas looking at her. Though her body remained stationary, her heart skipped several beats and she had to force images of Haldor from her mind.

"D-Did you have a safe journey?" she managed, inwardly cursing her lack of conversational skills. Of course his travels would have been safe—the roads had long been cleared of any real danger.

Nevertheless, Legolas confirmed that he had, and then asked how she was doing.

"I am well, thank you," she replied, placing her hands under the table so that she could twist her napkin without being seen. The movement calmed her somewhat, and she added, "Hammel and Haiweth are also excellent."

Legolas smiled. "That is good to hear," he said. "Where are they? I did not see them when I came in."

"They are at the other end of the table," Gúthwyn answered, sighing a little. "As far away from me as possible, I believe."

Legolas gave her a sympathetic smile, but just then his attention was diverted by Éomer inquiring after the colony. Gúthwyn could not help but feel relieved at this, but soon berated herself for it.

"Are you still training with the men?" Amrothos questioned shortly after, turning to face her.

Startled at the abruptness with which her practices had been brought up, Gúthwyn said, "Y-Yes, of course."

"I have always admired that," he confessed.

Éomund's daughter did not know what to say. "Thank you," she at last stuttered, and then jumped as a hand brushed across her shoulder. It turned out to be one of the servants, excusing themselves as they reached over to place the bread before her plate. Gúthwyn thanked them, glad for the diversion, but observing common courtesy waited until her brother was ready to eat.

"I trust," Amrothos began, lowering his voice, "that you do not find the soldiers too rough."

"W-Why would I?" Gúthwyn asked, confused.

Amrothos laughed. "You know how us men are around women," he said, smirking.

_No,_ Gúthwyn thought to herself, not daring to speak aloud, _I am not quite sure I know what you are talking about._ Clearly, the wine must have gone to his head faster than his siblings: he had already refilled his goblet. Plumes of nervousness rose through her, and she prayed that he would not drink anymore. Perhaps it was because she herself could not hold any mead, but she had always been careful around those who looked as if they might inebriate themselves with liquor.

At that moment, Éomer rose to his feet, raising a tankard in anticipation of a toast. Gúthwyn surveyed him with pride, for he was at once as regal as a king and as strong in appearance as the mightiest warrior. He had donned a dark green tunic inlaid with golden designs, most of them depicting majestic horses thundering across the open fields. No circlet rested upon his brow, but his fair hair tumbled loosely down to his shoulders and his bearing was such that he needed no crown to announce his status.

To see her brother look so handsome gave warmth to her heart. Though he might not have been as rich as some of the nobles sitting at his table, he outshone them all as he lifted his arm for silence. While at times he was overprotective and completely oblivious to her true feelings, she loved him fiercely and was glad that his presence was not overshadowed by even the most elegant of his guests.

"My friends," he began, his gaze alternately flicking between his own people, the court of Dol Amroth, and the Elves, "Lothíriel and I welcome you to our home. We pray that you will lack for nothing in this hall, and that you shall enjoy your stay as much as possible. Our stables, archery range, and training grounds are open to everyone, as well as our table."

There was a general round of laughter at this, and Éomer smiled before continuing.

"I usually keep my speeches short," he said, "for I feel it cruel and unnecessary punishment to place food before a man and force him to abstain from it while paying heed to his host. Tonight shall be no exception!"

With that he sat down, eliciting no small amount of applause. Gúthwyn herself was glad that her brother was mindful of this, for while she had stayed in Gondor after the War of the Ring she had encountered some lords who spoke for nearly ten minutes before they were permitted to dine. Now she reached for the bread and took a small slice, saving most of her appetite for a vegetable stew that would be served in another course.

Éomer had ensured that this welcoming meal would at the least be comparable to those in Dol Amroth. Fresh greens had been prepared, some of them cooked and others having only been washed. Later, there would be soup, the main course (which would be a trial for Gúthwyn to sit through, as it consisted almost entirely of meat), and finally a light dessert. Éomund's daughter could not even begin to comprehend how it was possible for one to eat so much on a daily basis.

There was a brief lull in the conversation as everyone saw to it that the keenest edge of their hunger was dulled. Gúthwyn only had a small piece of her bread, not wanting to become too full. However, she did not lack for occupation: she was more than content to gaze around at her fellow diners, and periodically lean over to see how the children were doing. Haiweth was chatting eagerly with Alphros, who seemed to have inherited none of his father's coldness, but Hammel was staring stonily at his plate and refusing to speak with anyone.

Gradually, talk at her end of the table returned. Elfwine, of course, was the subject of much discourse amongst Éomer, Lothíriel, and Imrahil—yet the brothers were a different story. Erchirion paid attention to his sister, but Elphir seemed fixated by what was on his plate, and no sooner had Amrothos finished his bread than he turned to Gúthwyn and resumed speaking to her.

"You never told me how you have been keeping yourself busy," he said. "Surely your children and your sword cannot take up all of your time."

_Your children._ Why was he insisting on calling them that? She of course thought of Hammel and Haiweth as her own, but to hear others address them as such was rather unnerving.

Remembering that she was supposed to give an answer, she replied, "I am afraid (or not afraid) they do. I enjoy those pursuits, and would gladly do them more often if there were more hours in a day."

Amrothos gave her a disbelieving look. "Such virtuous activities," he observed.

Gúthwyn was growing more flustered by the minute. When she detected the faintest emphasis on _virtuous_, her cheeks turned red, for she could not help recalling that she was anything but. Unhappily she stared down at her lap, not marking how Amrothos's shrewd gaze was absorbing all aspects of her expression. Perhaps it was because of her recent rejection by Elphir, but Éomund's daughter was suddenly finding the sons of Prince Imrahil considerably less engaging.

Legolas was the one who came to her rescue, though it was inadvertently. He leaned over and asked her if she would pass the bread. Gúthwyn complied, and then before Amrothos could resume their conversation she asked the Elven prince how his colony was.

Seeming surprised that she had inquired, Legolas responded that it was doing well, and that they now had only to wait for the fruits of their labor to grow. The trees were planted, the grounds had been tended to, and all of their housing had been constructed. Unlike in Lothlórien, the vast majority of the dwellings were not high up in branches, as Legolas's people were accustomed to living below the ground.

"Why would you do that?" she questioned, and then bit her lip in mortification, realizing how abrasive that had sounded.

Legolas did not appear to take offense at her query, and said, "In the days of old, our forest was called Mirkwood for a reason. It was far safer to live underground, as to have our homes in trees would have left them open to destruction from fire and the axe. Now, perhaps, there are some who might wish to live as they do in the Golden Wood, and they need not be hindered in this."

Desperate to keep his attention, rather than endure another awkward exchange with Amrothos—who was still watching her—Gúthwyn asked, "Have you seen my sister recently?"

"Yes, I have," Legolas said. "She and Faramir dined with us not too long ago."

"How is she?" Gúthwyn pressed eagerly, ignoring the mention of Faramir.

"She is excellent," Legolas replied. "I have rarely seen someone in better spirits."

Gúthwyn beamed, glad that her sister was happy. "Is she still learning about herbs?"

"Yes, she is," Legolas confirmed, smiling when he saw how well-received his words were. "Her knowledge is extensive, and I confess that some of what she told me I had not yet learned. Faramir informed me that she spends many hours perusing books about the art of healing."

Gúthwyn's grin faltered at the mention of the man who had killed Borogor. She did her best to conceal it, but the slight furrow in Legolas's brow made her keenly aware that her attempt had been in vain. Sighing, she took a moment to recollect herself and then said, "If the practice pleases her, I can say nothing against it. Indeed, I know little of healing, though I spent much time under the warden's care in Gondor."

"To each their own," was Legolas's answer. "You were often able to go and watch the men practice at the training grounds, correct?"

Gúthwyn nodded. "Although, unfortunately, I could not join them."

Legolas smirked at this. "At least your injuries were able to heal."

"Aye, I suppose there is much to be said for that," Gúthwyn agreed. _Yet my ankle seems determined to prove otherwise,_ she thought to herself. Ever since she had broken it a second time it had taken to paining her at odd moments, especially if it was about to rain. Cobryn, she knew, experienced similar troubles, yet his only served to remind her that she should not complain.

As if reading her thoughts, Legolas asked, "And you are feeling well nowadays?"

"Yes, I am, thank you," Gúthwyn said, speaking a rare truth. Then she blushed, recalling that when last he had seen her, she had been throwing up left and right, hardly able to talk because her throat was so dry. _That_ was what he had been referring to, rather than her old hurts in Gondor. Her cheeks turned even redder as she realized that she could not even remember him leaving—and that Éomer had told her she had become delirious right around that period.

Mercifully, at that moment she was distracted by Elfwine shrieking her name from across the table. She looked up just in time to see a roll of bread being flung in her direction, but it fell several feet short of its goal and the thrower frowned in disappointment.

"Elfwine!" Lothíriel hissed, moving the bread out of his reach. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop grabbing things?"

"Bad!" Elfwine shouted gleefully, snatching at her hair. Lothíriel looked absolutely humiliated, yet her father was clearly struggling not to laugh. Gúthwyn surreptitiously glanced down the table and saw Lady Míriel sighing, tossing a cool glare at the king's son before it was replaced an instant later with her soft smile.

_He is only a baby,_ Gúthwyn thought irritably. _He cannot help it._

Her annoyance with Lady Míriel continued when the woman turned to her husband and began muttering something in his ear. The words "unable to control him" reached Gúthwyn, yet other than her and Lord Tulkadan no one heard her whispering. Éomund's daughter barely managed to restrain herself from giving a curt reply; it cost every ounce of willpower she had to do so, and even the fact that she would be defending the queen if she did not was insufficient to make the task any easier.

The rest of the lunch seemed to draw itself out in an excruciating manner. Amrothos insisted on talking to Gúthwyn throughout the duration of it, and while this vexed her greatly at first, she began to hope that sooner or later she might extract from him the reasons behind Elphir's behavior. It was because of this that she started responding to him more animatedly, despite her guilt that this was on account of her desire to glean information about his brother.

After they were done eating, servants cleared their plates and then reemerged to direct the guests to their lodgings. Unfortunately, there were not enough to bring everyone at the same time, so Éomer offered to show Imrahil to Théodred's chambers. Upon hearing this, Gúthwyn stiffened. It was not that she minded Imrahil staying in her cousin's former room, but if her brother was bringing visitors to their quarters then she would be expected to do the same—and there was only one person who was to sleep near her.

She hung back, praying that Lothíriel would find Legolas and take him to his chambers, but she had no such luck. The queen had scooped Elfwine up in her arms and was directing the removal of the tables, clearly having more than enough work to carry out. With all of the other servants gone, there was nothing left for Gúthwyn to do but grit her teeth and make her way over to the Elf.

He was conversing quietly with Raniean, and at first she hovered some feet away from them, but within a few seconds they had noticed her. Raniean, she could tell, did not appreciate the interruption: his eyes surveyed her coldly for a moment, causing her to stammer out her apologies.

"Do not trouble yourself," Legolas said kindly, seeing her distress. "We were just deciding when the best days would be to go hunting for your brother."

"Oh," Gúthwyn replied, startled. "I did not know—th-thank you for your kindness."

"It is the least we can do," Legolas answered. "Especially since we are not the only ones asking for Éomer's hospitality."

It was then that Gúthwyn sorely wished she could have told him that such an act of charity was not necessary, but Edoras's situation was such that they would need all the help they could get feeding their guests for an entire month. Even with relatively stable crops over the past few years, they made just enough so that most of their people could live comfortably and themselves more well-off than a majority of the nobles in Gondor.

Thus, "We greatly appreciate it" was what she had to tell Legolas.

"Say nothing of it," Legolas bade her, smiling.

Raniean still had not moved; his countenance had not changed, and was as frosty as ever. She glanced hesitatingly at him for a few seconds, and then asked, "Would you like to be shown to your room?"

"That would be wonderful," Legolas responded, inclining his head. "Thank you very much."

Again, Gúthwyn looked at Raniean, wondering what would be the most polite way to inform him that he would be sleeping on the floor again, but he said something in Elvish to Legolas and left them. While this meant that she was alone with Legolas, she could not help but be relieved that none of his people were near her. This shamed her, and for what must have been the thousandth time she determined to display none of her weakness.

In an effort to keep this resolution, she said as they began walking, "You will be staying in Éowyn's old chambers, as Imrahil has taken Th—my cousin's."

Legolas glanced at her. "And this arrangement does not bother you?"

His boldness threatened to shatter her resolve. "N-No, it does not," she replied. "Hammel was, of course, a little upset, but he has had"—she lowered her voice—"a foul temper of late. It is no matter."

"I do not wish to inconvenience anyone," Legolas said quietly, "least of all yourself."

They had just reached the passage that led to her room, but Legolas halted and would go no further.

"Really, I am fine," she insisted, clasping her hands behind her back so that they would not betray her if they trembled. "Please, my brother will be upset if you are not situated properly."

At this he had no choice but to relent, yet when she opened the door to Éowyn's quarters he paused again. It took all the self-reserve she had not to step away from him, as they were only a couple of feet apart.

"Gúthwyn," he said, capturing her eyes with his. She found that she could not have moved even if she desired to. For an instant, it seemed as if he had forgotten what he wanted to tell her. Then the moment passed, and he spoke, "I pray that your rest is undisturbed tonight."

"I will be fine," she promised him, and added—because a rush of courage suddenly instilled itself in her—"I am glad you are here."

Neither of them could have possibly predicted how true her words would prove over the next couple of weeks.


	81. Heahtor's Gift

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighty-One:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eighty-One**

It came as no shock to Gúthwyn when she awoke from a nightmare in the early hours of the morning. Nor was she surprised to find, upon tiptoeing her way around the sleeping guests and slipping outside, that she was not alone in restlessness. As usual, Legolas had also gone out to watch the stars. Once realizing that his presence had caused her restlessness, the prince had insisted upon switching rooms, convinced that he had overstepped his boundaries in residing so close to her.

Yet Gúthwyn deterred him from applying to her brother for a change in quarters, something that had startled even her. She was not going to give in to her terror so easily. In her younger days she had been proud; was it so impossible for her to resume that former mood? She won a victory against herself, however small, before the sun rose. Legolas's arguments had been diverted by her assurances that she experienced bad dreams regardless of whether he was a couple of yards or a couple of hundred leagues away from her—though by no means was he complacent about her discomfort.

Despite his concern, she emerged from her chambers that day feeling as if she were slowly but surely on her way to recovery. Her heart had not beaten so fiercely as was the norm; her hands had not quivered so much, and she was positive that she had only taken one step back from him throughout their entire conversation.

This awareness made her nearly giddy as she sat down to lunch with Éomer, Elfwine, Imrahil, and Erchirion, though she was forced to endure many a jest about her lateness. She did not mind this overmuch, and was actually able to eat a decent meal. Éomer smiled encouragingly at her when she was done, showing that he was far from oblivious when it came to her improvements.

After taking her leave of the royal family, Gúthwyn went out onto the streets in hopes of finding Elphir. He was nowhere to be seen in the Golden Hall, and Alphros was similarly absent. She hoped that the prince was not trying to avoid her. After yesterday's lunch he had accompanied the rest of his people down to their tents and not returned until dinner, where Lothíriel had seated her as far away from her family as was reasonable and thus made interaction impossible.

Sighing somewhat, she began strolling down the road, thinking that he might have gone to the training grounds. She herself purposed to practice there sometime this afternoon, as she had not gotten a chance to yesterday and sorely missed the feel of a blade in her hand. As she walked, she did not see a single person from Dol Amroth. Evidently, they had not been impressed by her brother's kingdom and had elected to remain in their tents.

Gúthwyn felt a surge of anger at this. She still had not forgotten her attire being mocked by one of the women. The culprit would never be determined, but to find herself being treated so horribly in her own home was something she could not forgive. And over so small an issue as her dress!—this, she thought, revealed most unsatisfactory glimpses of how her life would have been, had she married Elphir.

_Let us be glad that it was not so,_ she thought with a shudder of relief. _I would not have been able to tolerate their society for long._

She was so absorbed in her musings that she did not see Amrothos until she nearly walked into him.

"Gúthwyn," he said, hardly seeming surprised at all. He sunk into a low bow, though his eyes never left her.

"My lord," Gúthwyn replied, managing a small curtsy. "Have you seen—"

"I must say, I did not think there was truth to Éomer's speech when he said that you still slept well past noon," Amrothos said, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I pray that you were comfortable."

Gúthwyn paused. Did he know about her nightmares? "I-I was," she at last lied, her pulse starting to quicken. "Thank you."

There was a brief silence between them, and she was about to ask him if he could tell her where Elphir was when he declared, "This is a large city."

"Oh—" Caught off-guard, Gúthwyn flushed, bit her lip, and then said, "Aye, it is. The people are no less wonderful."

"Are you familiar with many of them?" Amrothos inquired.

"Of… of my people?" Gúthwyn asked, amazed. "Of course I am! It is rare that I see someone with whom I am not acquainted, and in that case I always try to remedy the error."

Amrothos inclined his head. "Admirable sentiments, though it is rare that one hears them in Dol Amroth."

"It is not considered appropriate to be aware of the concerns of those whom you rule over?" Gúthwyn repeated in disbelief, and before she could stop herself she exclaimed, "How terrible!"

Amrothos gave a slow smile. "My father does not hold such beliefs. It is the people themselves who have decreed it to be so."

"You mean, the lords and ladies who could not go a single day without their fancy garments and the comforts of their lavishly decorated homes?" Gúthwyn retorted, and then flushed. Éomer would have been horrified to hear her speak so abrasively to his guest; she had to learn to curb her tongue, regardless of how much the policies of Dol Amroth irritated her.

When Amrothos did not say anything, she blushed even more and said, "I am sorry. I should not have been so belligerent."

"Do not apologize," Amrothos replied, waving her attempts to do so away. "I confess it to be a pleasant change from the submissive women one gets nowadays."

His frankness—though refreshing when compared to the coy glances of Lady Míriel and the sternness of the noblemen—was unsettling to her, especially since they hardly knew each other. She was furious at herself for reasons half-unbeknownst, for she had never felt this inept at conversing and hated the sensation. Why had she grown so tongue-tied all of a sudden?

The situation was only made more awkward when Amrothos inquired with a grin, "Do I have to beg for a tour of your home, or will you not offer one to me?"

Another blunder, and she had only been with him for five minutes!

"I-I assumed that you already knew y-your way around," she stammered, mortified. How could she possibly be such an awful hostess? No wonder his friends thought her manners coarse and unrefined.

"It is never safe to assume," Amrothos replied. "Now, where shall we go? I surrender myself into your undoubtedly capable hands."

"Th-There is not much else to see beyond the main street," Gúthwyn admitted. "The roads beyond are all either houses or taverns."

"I see," Amrothos said, glancing around. His expression was difficult to decipher.

Gathering her wits again, Gúthwyn asked, "Have you seen El—"

"I must say, Elfwine seems quite the handful," Amrothos observed, once again interrupting her. Gúthwyn restrained herself from sighing. Was it so impossible to reconcile with the heir of Dol Amroth? "I do not envy my sister."

"All children are like that," Gúthwyn said, remembering with a sad smile Haiweth's behavior in Mordor. The girl had been at once demanding and clingy, determined both to have her own way and to appease Éomund's daughter.

"Even yours?" Amrothos questioned, as if reading her mind.

"They are not mine," Gúthwyn corrected him, for some reason feeling as if she needed to assert that in his presence. "But yes, they were."

_And are,_ she added silently to herself, thinking of Hammel's recent behavior. She no longer understood his temperament; his inexplicable terseness around her was bordering on dislike, and as much as she wished to believe so she could not attribute it all to Aldeth. It was not just her, either. He was steadfastly ignoring Cobryn, and had not said a word to him ever since the advisor had reprimanded him for his impertinence.

At that moment, however, she was distracted by the sight of Elphir walking hand in hand with Alphros. The prince did not notice them at first, as he was paying close attention to something that his son was saying. Yet as the two of them drew nearer, he detected her gaze and glanced up. His face tightened, and the eyes that met her own were both cold and—strangely—betrayed. _What have I done to you?_ she longed to ask. _Why did you break off our marriage?_

All too soon Elphir looked away, and nodding at Amrothos continued up the street. Alphros showed signs of wanting to go over to his uncle, and threw more than one curious stare at Gúthwyn, but when he voiced his thoughts to Elphir they went without reward.

"Amrothos," Gúthwyn said sharply, determined to get a straight answer out of him. "Why is Elphir avoiding me?"

"Regretfully, I am not so close to him that he would tell me," Amrothos responded after a slight hesitation. "Nor is it be my place to discuss the matter."

"Do I not have a right to know the reason why my marriage is not to take place?" she demanded. "You cannot be so far from his confidence as you say. You are, after all, his brother."

"Elphir keeps the counsels of his heart to himself," Amrothos replied. "He has learned, as have we all, that one cannot be too careful with their secrets."

"So what you are saying is that you have no information, no thoughts, not even any guesses, as to why my present situation is at hand—you who are his own blood?"

"I regret it as much as you do," Amrothos said, and she briefly closed her eyes, "but I do not. My surprise was just as great when he announced that he no longer desired you."

Gúthwyn fell silent. She had to be careful of how she interrogated the man before her, especially since he was Elphir's kin. Yet she was reluctant to let answers regarding the eldest prince's behavior slip by, and here was the perfect opportunity to gain more knowledge. If Amrothos truly was in the dark about the issue, perhaps he could always inquire…

No sooner had she thought of it than the prince shifted on his feet and informed her quietly, "I might be able to persuade him to be more forthcoming with his reasoning."

Her eyes widened. "You would do that?" she inquired, having expected a challenge in getting him to such a thing.

"I am just as curious as you are, I have to admit," Amrothos answered. "I will do my best, but be warned—if there is any success at all, it shall not happen overnight."

Gúthwyn sighed, unhappy with the prospect of having to wait but willing to do whatever it took to preserve her friendship with Elphir. This meant that she would have to trust Amrothos, and hope that curiosity was enough of a motive for him. "As you wish," she said gloomily. "Thank you."

Amrothos smiled, and then said, "Let us forget about him for the time being. It is a marvelous day out; would you care to accompany me down the street?"

Gúthwyn agreed to this, still having a mind to go to the training grounds. They began walking, Amrothos receiving several lingering looks from the women—himself returning not a few of them. The girls were so enthralled by him that they did not even narrow their eyes at Gúthwyn, nor pause to gossip spitefully about whatever falsities Nethiel had recently ignited. Éomund's daughter was amused by the lack of attention she was getting, which was a welcome relief.

Granted, she could understand why the women were watching Amrothos. The prince was certainly handsome, though not in the way that Elphir was. While Elphir was the perfect gentleman, Amrothos had an enigmatic air about him, his dark hair and eyes only adding to the illusion. Though Elphir had a kinder face, Amrothos was taller, and the lazy smile that constantly played upon his lips added a rakish touch to his looks. Gúthwyn did not find the combination particularly appealing, as she was rather wary of Imrahil's sons, but she could see how other women would admire it.

As the two of them continued on their way, Amrothos commented, "I heard there is to be somewhat of a ball tonight."

"Yes, there is," Gúthwyn confirmed. "We do not have them often, so I would look forward to it if only I were not so inept at dancing." This was hardly the reason, for she had fun enough despite her laughable steps and dubious (at best) grace. Rather, the coming of the feast meant that she would have to endure more of the ladies' company, which would be tiresome at the least. The fact that even the Rohirric women were beginning to turn from her only made things worse.

"We shall have to change that, then," Amrothos declared. "I will go so far as to demand that such a crime not go unfixed. May I have the honor of being your partner for the first song?"

"If you so desire," she said after a pause.

"I do," Amrothos replied, momentarily startling her with his earnestness. Flushing, Gúthwyn stared down at her feet. She would much rather have danced with one of the officers at the beginning of the night, as she would have felt more at ease in the presence of someone she saw every day, but she could hardly refuse his request.

Luckily, she was diverted by someone calling her name. Turning, she saw Haiweth running towards her, her cheeks rosy with exertion.

"Hello, little one," Gúthwyn said, smiling.

"Hello," Haiweth returned cheerily, and then gave a quick curtsy to Amrothos. For once, his rank did not fascinate her as she explained, "Heahtor wanted me to give you this, but he was too afraid to do it himself."

With that, she held her hand out from behind her back. A small yellow flower was between her fingers.

"He said it reminded him of you," Haiweth spoke as Gúthwyn received it in wonder. "Because you smile a lot."

She could not help beaming now. Amrothos was forgotten as she imagined little Heahtor picking this flower for her. He had often been sent by Elfhelm, his uncle, to give her a message of some sorts; evidently, he had decided to continue the practice on his own. He was so sweet, so adorable—she remembered the first time she had met him, when he had walked right into her tent at Dunharrow whilst the Rohirrim were waiting to ride to the Pelennor Fields. With his bubbling laughter and playful confidence, the boy had won his way easily into her heart.

"Where is he?" she asked Haiweth, wanting to thank him for his kindness.

"He is hiding behind those bales of hay," Haiweth replied, gesturing surreptitiously towards the stack in question. Gúthwyn squinted just in time to see a small golden head peek around the corners of the straw bundles. Upon realizing that he had been caught, Heahtor grinned sheepishly and waved. His face was bright red.

Knowing that it would only embarrass him more if she went over to him, Gúthwyn reciprocated the wave and tucked the flower behind her ear. Having achieved his mission, Heahtor giggled and darted away, returning to a group of children who were playing tag.

"Will you give him my thanks?" Gúthwyn asked Haiweth quietly.

The girl nodded, and with that she curtsied again to Amrothos and followed after Heahtor.

"You seem to have many admirers," Amrothos observed, once Haiweth was out of earshot.

Gúthwyn blushed. "Hardly," she admitted. "I am friends with more of them."

"So it seems around the children, yes," Amrothos agreed.

Glancing at him, Gúthwyn decided that it would be best not to pursue the subject, but the prince picked it up again.

"What of the men?" he asked. "It seems impossible that you do not have courtiers amongst them."

Éomund's daughter burst out laughing. "I am sorry," she apologized after a moment, "but the idea of them wanting to woo me… nay, my lord, I have none. Nor would it have been appropriate, given…" Her mirth faded and then altogether disappeared. "Given that there were negotiations with your father."

Amrothos nodded. "I—"

"Amrothos!"

Both of them turned to see Erchirion approaching them, his hand shielding his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. "Lothíriel wishes to see you," he announced, barely looking at Gúthwyn.

"Can it wait?" Amrothos asked.

Erchirion snorted. "Since when has it ever been a good idea to make her wait?" he retorted. "I will wager that she still begrudges us making her stay at home while we went to that tournament nine years ago."

Amrothos rolled his eyes. "I suppose you are right," he admitted, "though it was not a very good tournament, and she probably was more entertained with her studies than we were by those buffoons who called themselves warriors."

"That may have been the case," Erchirion agreed, "and while it was not prudent for her to"—there was a slight pause—"be traveling so far from home, I doubt she saw it that way."

The younger prince was silent for a few seconds. "I suppose she did not," he at last said, his eyes narrowing. "Do you know where I might find her?"

"She is expecting you in the throne room."

Not wanting to intrude on the discussion, Gúthwyn began drifting away from the two of them. "Excuse me," she said as unobtrusively as possible.

Amrothos opened his mouth, but decided against speaking and closed it. Instead he nodded and then turned to Erchirion. Relieved to have attained her freedom once more, Gúthwyn wandered the rest of the way down to the training grounds. When she arrived there, the sound of swords clanging against each other amidst laughter and jesting was a comfort to her heart.

"Hello, Elfhelm," she greeted the Marshal, who had just finished sparring with Gamling.

"My lady," Elfhelm replied, grinning. "I am surprised to see you here in such attire. Or have you forgotten that one cannot fight in a dress?"

"I bet I could beat you in one," Gúthwyn teased. "Your skills have become woefully sloppy of late. I am sure Gamling would agree with me."

The victor of the match, Gamling overheard their words and laughed. "Aye, that is true," he agreed. "I confess I had expected more from a Marshal, but rumor had it that there were better men for the job."

Elfhelm reached out and rapped the captain's head with the pommel of his sword. "When we are not in front of Gúthwyn, you will pay for that," he said jokingly.

"Then you may have your opportunity now," Gúthwyn interjected, deciding that she might as well join them, "for I am going to change into more suitable clothing."

After bidding them farewell, she began heading back up the road, absent-mindedly removing the flower from her hair and playing with it. She fell in a couple of feet behind a group of women from Dol Amroth, all of whom were too busy critiquing their surroundings to observe her.

"I must say, I _almost_ pity Lothíriel for having to live here," one of them mused. It was Lady Míriel, wearing an elegant gown that seemed obnoxiously overstated on the main street.

"Indeed," another said, the grimace evident in her voice. "The roads are horrible enough, but I daresay none of the people have an ounce of civility in them!"

"Aye, they are rather crude," a third admitted, her words quieter. "Look at all of these children running around. _I_ would never tolerate such a display."

There was a murmuring of assent, and the speaker continued. "It is most improper. They would be far better off with a tutor, although I am sure none of them can afford it."

Gúthwyn's blood was boiling. Every muscle in her body was straining to grab the slender necks of those hideous, ungrateful, loathsome women and strangle them to death. How dare they treat the people who had opened their city to them so cruelly? Did they not realize how much the Rohirrim had to work for their living, or was the concept so inconceivable to a group of people whose labor consisted of spending their money on foolish gowns and finery?

Yet they were by no means finished. "Have you noticed how all of them are in dire need of a bath?"

At the head of the cluster, Lady Míriel chuckled, though she stifled the noises when some of the soldiers walked by. "Have I _noticed?_" she asked incredulously, once there was no chance of the commoners hearing her. "I can smell the fact from a mile away! At least Éomer manages to keep himself decent."

"Well, we always knew the king was a fine catch—rich, handsome, and with a crown to boot," Lady Aewen said slyly. "Despite his barbaric subjects, I would wager that he certainly knows how to please a woman properly." A burst of giggling accompanied this remark, but Gúthwyn felt as if she would be sick. "Yet for him to be ensnared by that—"

She paused as they passed several women making their way down to the washing circles, and Gúthwyn took her chances. "Lady Míriel," she said sharply.

Almost as one, the group started and turned to face her.

"_Lady_ Gúthwyn," Míriel acknowledged, her eyes fixed on Gúthwyn's own. Éomund's daughter had the impression that the noblewoman was swiftly determining how much she could have heard.

Gúthwyn decided to end her speculation. "If you find it so necessary to insult my people," she snapped, "do not be so foolish as to do it on the main road! And while you are at it, remember that Éomer is my brother, a fact that will serve you well should you ever decide to speak of him in so mercenary a manner!"

"We are but praising his accomplishments," Lady Míriel said smoothly, glossing over the accusations concerning the man in question's subjects. "If this is looked down upon in Rohan, then by all means we shall stop."

"You know what I am talking about," Gúthwyn snarled. "Commending one's achievements is not a breach of etiquette in this city, but belittling their people behind their back is. It is also viewed as cowardice!"

Lady Míriel's eyes widened in shock, and the other women muttered disconcertedly amongst themselves. This only made Éomund's daughter even more furious.

"The city has been kind enough to receive you for a month," she spat, "and if the best you can say about its inhabitants is that they are crude, then you are the worst guests we have ever had to endure."

She did not even wait to see their reactions. Without another word she stormed past them, not caring if their malignant attentions were thereafter turned towards her. _How dare they?_ she seethed. _How can they place such importance on social status, when they themselves are some of the most ill-bred people I have ever met?_

Her ire was such that she continued all the way up the stairs in a blind rage, and was only made aware of her surroundings when she walked right into Cobryn.

"Are you all right?" he asked her once he steadied her, for she had instinctually leaped back and found herself in danger of tumbling down the stairs.

"Those _horrible_ people," Gúthwyn growled, actually shaking. "Those _horrible_, atrocious, craven—"

"Who are you talking about?" Cobryn demanded, his grip on her arm tightening.

"Those foul women from Dol Amroth!" Gúthwyn cried, jerking her head in their direction. "I just overheard them—"

Her friend made a swift silencing motion. "They are drawing closer," he muttered. "Let us go inside and find a place where we will not be heard."

Fists still clenched in hatred, Gúthwyn agreed, and followed him into the throne room. Much to her dismay, the entire royal family of Dol Amroth was present, though Lothíriel and Amrothos were seated somewhat apart from the others. Cobryn barely glanced at them, and instead led Éomund's daughter to a table in the corner of the hall. There, they were partially obscured from Éomer's view by a large pillar.

"What did you hear?" Cobryn asked, almost before she had even lowered herself onto the bench.

"They were insulting my people," Gúthwyn hissed, her ears ringing. She did not notice Elphir glancing over at them; nor did she see when he slammed his goblet down and left the hall. "They said that all of them were 'in dire need of a bath,' and that their behavior was 'crude'! How _dare_ they? The absolute nerve of them, to be so condescending about those who have been good enough to host them, their uptight husbands, and those monstrous gowns they insist on wearing!"

"Did they know you were listening?" he inquired, his eyes narrowed in distaste.

"I made sure of it," Gúthwyn said fiercely. "I told them that they were the worst guests we have ever had, and their behavior was that of cowards. They shall never speak to me again, I daresay, and that only makes me more satisfied."

Cobryn raised his eyebrows. "You do not think that perhaps you could have been more discreet—"

"I gave them exactly what they deserved," Gúthwyn said hotly.

"No one is denying that," Cobryn conceded, "but a little more tact might have been befitting whilst confronting your queen's friends."

Gúthwyn paused, biting her lip. As much as she hated to admit it, Cobryn's words were far more logical than her own. Yes, Lady Míriel's spiteful remarks were unforgivable—yet had it been necessary for her to make an enemy of the woman on her first full day in the Riddermark?

At length she cursed. "I suppose I have made a mess of things already," she said ruefully, and then frowned. "Though I most certainly will not apologize to them."

It was then that Lady Míriel entered, always a few steps ahead of the other noblewomen. She threw a positively foul glare over at Gúthwyn, but did not deign to speak to her and instead continued towards Lothíriel and Amrothos. The two siblings ended their conversation and greeted their visitors, though Éomund's daughter did not get the impression that the women were welcome. Within less than a minute, Lady Míriel rose to her feet and flounced away, her back rigid and her eyes flashing.

"I would exercise more caution in the future," Cobryn warned, causing Gúthwyn to look away from the puzzling exchange. "They are only here for a month; it is better to grit your teeth and endure it, rather than create a potentially difficult situation."

Gúthwyn sighed. "Already it seems as if they will never leave," she muttered, and stood up. "I should go, they are all watching us as if we are growing extra heads."

It was true: not a second had gone by since the arrival of the women that Éomund's daughter was not under the shrewd observation of at least one of them. Surreptitiously, she examined her gown, but nothing was amiss.

"I expect that they still think us to be having an affair," Cobryn replied, making no move to follow her. "And I believe you might very well have your brother's wife to thank for that."

Something prodded at the corner of Gúthwyn's mind, but after a few seconds of vain recollection she shrugged. "I am surprised she has nothing better to talk about," she retorted, and then made to leave the table.

"Who gave that to you?" Cobryn questioned then, his words exceedingly curious.

Gúthwyn was puzzled for a moment, but when her friend pointed at her hand she looked down and saw the crumpled flower that Heahtor had given her. Her breath caught in her throat, and hastily she attempted to smooth it out. "Oh, no," she breathed when she was unsuccessful. "Elfhelm's nephew gave it to me… I did not realize that I was holding it so tightly!"

"You could press it in a book," Cobryn suggested.

She brightened. While she still wished that she had not ruined it so quickly, at least now she would be able to preserve it. After thanking Cobryn profusely, she continued on her way to her room, determined to find a safe place where she could put the plant until she had the time to do as her friend had advised. As she walked by the table occupied by Lothíriel, some of the younger ladies snickered, but only Amrothos was bold enough to meet her eye. He, too, glanced between her and Cobryn, giving her a sharp look.

Flushing, Gúthwyn stepped into the hallway and almost immediately crashed into Legolas. She leapt back, her face bright red, and stammered out an apology, trying not to remember how close their bodies had been for that brief instant.

"Nay, it was my fault," Legolas replied, keeping a respectful distance from her. She saw now the quiver slung across his back, as well as the bow that he held in his hand. "I was engrossed by my thoughts. Forgive me. Are you hurt?"

Gúthwyn shook her head. "I am fine, thank you."

The absent waver resonated clearer than any of her words had. Legolas smiled; she took courage from her success and asked, "Who are you going to be practicing with?"

"Raniean and Trelan," Legolas answered, "though the rest of my people shall likely join."

Gúthwyn nodded at this, hardly able to believe that her hands were not trembling, and said, "I shall not keep you, then."

"You have not been," Legolas assured her. It was on that note that the two of them parted. Gúthwyn's grin was broad as she closed the door to her room and gently laid Heahtor's flower on a nearby table.

_Maybe his visit will not be such a bad thing, after all,_ she thought to herself, slipping out of her dress and discarding it on the floor. _You just had an entire conversation with him without panicking!_

Granted, it had not been a very long meeting, but it was a step all the same. She whistled while pulling on a pair of leggings, and was feeling exceedingly merry as she donned a tunic and retrieved Framwine from his trunk. After she had completed the ensemble with a pair of worn boots, she was ready to return outside and spar with the men. In only a matter of minutes, she would be back at the place where she felt the most comfortable.

She had reckoned, of course, without considering the delegation from Dol Amroth. No sooner had she stepped out into the throne room than a hushed silence fell over Lothíriel's table. With the exception of the queen, who was doing an excellent job of stifling her laughter but for the gleam in her eyes, all of the women were gaping unabashedly at Gúthwyn's outfit. Their expressions were so appalled, so horrified, that she would have laughed had they not been directed at her.

Instead, she clutched her sword tighter and quickened her pace, only stopping when the doors opened to reveal Éomer and Prince Imrahil. Elfwine was in the arms of the former.

"My lord," she said swiftly, curtsying to the prince. The action looked utterly ridiculous without a skirt. Her cheeks a faint shade of pink, she turned to Éomer. "Brother."

"Lady Gúthwyn," Imrahil acknowledged, not even blinking at her attire.

Éomer smiled and asked, "You are just heading out now?"

"Gúthy stay," Elfwine commanded, reaching out for her.

"I am sorry, little one," Gúthwyn apologized, "but I have promised Elfhelm that I will spar with him."

"I hope he has practiced enough," Éomer joked. "I do not want him to resign from my service anytime soon!"

Gúthwyn glowed at this praise, but nevertheless informed her brother that she had seen the Marshal training earlier that day. Éomer nodded and would have said something, but then his eyes darted over her shoulder and rested upon the women, all of whom were still staring at her.

"By the Valar, sister," he muttered. "I suppose you could not have chosen a better time to pursue this interest?"

Gúthwyn's eyes flashed, but remembering Cobryn's advice and the fact that she was in the presence of Imrahil she chose not to say anything.

"Aye, you might just have made their situation worse," Imrahil said gravely. "I am afraid the past couple of weeks have been exceedingly difficult on them. They were only able to take twenty or thirty gowns apiece, and then had to endure miles of travel upon the open road, with just fur-lined tents and silken sheets to protect them from the cold summer air. It has been a most trying experience. And now, to be subjected to the indignity of seeing a woman wearing something other than jewels and dresses—"

The twinkle in his eye as he said this was enough to make Gúthwyn burst out laughing, much to Éomer's chagrin—though the king looked as if he, too, were struggling against rolling his eyes. "A trying experience!" Éomund's daughter scoffed. "Indeed, I am sure!"

"Thankfully, Lothíriel is far more resilient to these inconveniences," Imrahil said. "Sometimes I wonder why… alas, I shall not speak ill of my supporters' wives. They are likely all outstanding at needlework."

Gúthwyn snorted, and then decided after Éomer threw her a warning glare that she was best employed elsewhere. Excusing herself from them, she moved out onto the landing and was about to continue on her way down to the training grounds when something near the well caught her eye. Hammel was standing there, talking to Aldeth. Neither of them appeared happy.

A sinking sensation in her gut, Gúthwyn half-hid herself behind a pillar, lest Hammel should see her watching him and grow even angrier. One of the guards asked if she was feeling well, but she quietly assured him that she was fine and continued to observe the children.

She could not hear a word that either of them were saying, but Aldeth was clearly reprimanding Hammel for something. The girl's brow was knitted as she spoke—almost in bewilderment. Hammel's muscles were becoming tauter with each word. But it was not until Aldeth finished that he at last responded. His arms waved in the air, jabbing viciously in the direction of the training grounds. He must have been shouting, for the two of them were drawing odd looks from passerby.

Gúthwyn clamped her hand over her mouth as Aldeth lost her temper, screaming something at him and gesturing wildly with her hands. Her face was at once hurt, confused, and furious.

_What is happening?_ Éomund's daughter wondered anxiously, standing on her tiptoes to see them better.

All of a sudden, Wulfríd appeared at Aldeth's side. Gúthwyn had not noticed him earlier, having been fixated by the two children. Now her stomach clenched as Hammel's rival placed himself between the boy and Aldeth, obviously demanding to know what was going on. Aldeth tried to speak, but it was useless. Abruptly Hammel spun around and stormed away. Wulfríd's expression turned foul, and he would have leaped after the boy had not Aldeth restrained him. Then his face became softer, but when he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder she wrenched herself out of his grasp and crossed the street to her house. The door slammed a few seconds later.

Gúthwyn did not have time to gather her bearings before she saw Hammel mounting the stairs, taking two of them with a single step. "Hammel, wait!" she called, when he showed signs of wanting to go right by her.

The boy's eyes were murderous as he slowed down.

"What happened?" she inquired softly.

"It is none of your business," he snapped, folding his arms across his chest.

"Hammel, please," she said. "I saw you and Aldeth—why were you arguing?"

"Are the words 'it is none of your business' that difficult to understand?" Hammel growled, clenching his fists. "Or shall I translate it into Rohirric for you?"

For a second, Gúthwyn thought she had misheard him. When she realized that he had actually just said that to her, she pointed a shaking finger in the direction of the Golden Hall. "Get in there," she ordered him. Her voice was cold, reflecting nothing of the fact that her insides were burning with rage. He had pushed her too far. "I do not want to see you again until you are ready to be civil. Now go!"

The boy stood there for a moment, his eyes wide with surprise.

"Are the words 'get out of my sight' that difficult to understand?" Gúthwyn spat back at him. "Or shall I translate it into Rohirric for you?"

It was one of the few occasions that she actually saw Hammel look unsure of himself. He hesitated before leaving her, and right before he opened the door he paused, as if debating whether or not to turn back. But at length his posture stiffened and he entered Meduseld, soon passing out of her sight. Gúthwyn's fingers curled into fists as she watched him go. Her breathing was uneven.

_Where did I go wrong with him?_ she asked herself, ignoring the shocked stares from the guards. _Why has he turned out the way he is, while Haiweth is perfectly normal?_

Again, always unbidden, the thought permeated the corners of her mind: _He knows what you did with Haldor._

Gúthwyn shuddered, determined to banish such a loathsome idea. _He knows nothing,_ she told herself firmly. _He was far too young._

_Eight is old enough._


	82. A Renewed Discussion

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighty-Two:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eighty-Two**

"This looks wonderful on you, my lady."

Mildwen's words were accompanied by a wistful sigh, one that reflected almost the exact opposite of what Éomund's daughter was feeling.

"If only it _fit_ wonderful," Gúthwyn muttered, wincing as Elflede tugged at yet another lace. She could not even begin to count how many they had already tied.

"Of course it does," Elflede said briskly. "I must say, I am wondering what they shall be wearing tonight."

"They" referred to the women of Dol Amroth, who almost certainly would outshine the rest of them—at least in terms of jewels.

"An outfit that costs more than what half of the men in this city make in a year, no doubt," Gúthwyn replied, no small amount of distaste in her voice.

"Just imagine," Mildwen said dreamily, her eyes wide in awe. "And that is to say nothing of their pendants or bracelets."

Gúthwyn was silent, keenly aware that she would be perhaps the most under-dressed of all the ladies in the throne room. The necklace Éowyn had given her for her twelfth birthday was the only piece of jewelry, aside from a plain circlet, that she owned; she did not even have any makeup, while Lothíriel often used powders for her face when they had guests. This did not particularly bother her in one way or another, but then again she was hardly conventional.

"I think the men are far more handsome," Elflede informed them matter-of-factly, eliciting shocked giggles from Mildwen. "The princes—"

The maid stopped short, looking anxiously at Gúthwyn and clearly regretting her speech.

"It is fine," Gúthwyn said quickly, waving her hand in dismissal.

Elflede nodded, but did not continue about the sons of Imrahil, and instead asked her if she would like to have her hair brushed. Gúthwyn consented, and after she had done so there were a few minutes of quiet interrupted only by the sound of the comb encountering a few knots. Those were obviously from the time she had spent at the training grounds, during which she had defeated Elfhelm and Erkenbrand but had been bested once by Gamling.

"Do you think he is angry with you?" Mildwen at last inquired timidly, seeming afraid to voice her curiosity.

Gúthwyn shrugged uneasily at the mention of Elphir. "I do not know," she answered. "He has not spoken to me since he arrived."

Her mind fell upon Amrothos's promise, wondering if he would succeed in discovering the reason for her rejection at Elphir's hands. She was somewhat surprised that he had so readily agreed to help her, but if he wanted to satisfy his own curiosity she could say nothing against the idea. It was a less than honorable approach, yet at this point all she really wanted was an answer.

"He will come around," Elflede said confidently, smoothing out several long strands of dark hair. "Are you going to dance with anyone?"

"I have—" On the verge of saying that she had promised Amrothos the first dance, Gúthwyn held her tongue. It was not that such a vow was illicit enough to merit gossip, but if by some chance it was repeated it could be easily misconstrued. "I have no reason not to," she finished after a short pause. "Although, I do not see how that will be a possibility with this gown."

"You look beautiful," Mildwen said fervently. "The blue matches your eyes."

The younger maid was somewhat right, Gúthwyn thought as she examined herself more closely, but that did not make the dress easier to wear. "Thank you," she nevertheless said, not wishing to seem ungrateful.

"What happened to your white gowns?" Elflede asked then. "I did not see them in your wardrobe while I was putting your clean clothes away."

Gúthwyn stiffened, but the motion was small enough that neither of them noticed it. "I am storing them elsewhere for when Haiweth can fit into them," she announced.

Both Mildwen and Elflede stared at her as if she had gone mad. "She has a couple of years yet!" the latter exclaimed, aghast. "You can still get some good use out of them!"

"The waist is getting too small," Gúthwyn fibbed.

Elflede raised an eyebrow. "Yours is narrower than Haiweth's," she pointed out.

Realizing now her mistake, Gúthwyn sighed and said, "It is of no importance. Shall we go and join everyone else?"

Mildwen nodded eagerly, and Elflede had only to set aside the comb before agreeing. The three of them left her chambers, but halfway down the corridor, Éomund's daughter bade the others go on without her and ducked into Haiweth's room.

"Are you ready to go, little one?" she asked the girl, who was in the midst of drawing something.

Haiweth made a face. "I am not little," she pointed out. "I am as tall as you are now!"

Gúthwyn smiled. "Yes, you are," she agreed. "And soon you shall surpass me."

Haiweth beamed at the prospect. "Hammel is already taller than you," she said.

"Hardly," Gúthwyn replied, making a valiant attempt to chuckle. "I cannot tell the difference."

"He is in a bad mood today," Haiweth remarked with a frustrated sigh. "He always is. Why?"

"I am afraid I cannot answer that," Gúthwyn murmured wistfully. While she was furious at the boy for having been so rude to her, she would have gladly set aside her anger if it would guarantee him returning to his once-pleasant state.

The two of them stood there a moment before Haiweth straightened and questioned, "Can we go to the throne room?"

"Of course," Gúthwyn said, snapping out of her musings.

She did not bother to check on Hammel before entering the great hall, as she knew that he would join the festivities when or if he saw fit. There was no reason for her to strain their relationship even more. With every conversation they had, it seemed as if his regard for her was fading away, to the point where he would soon cease to respect her or even heed her wishes.

In the end, it was the noise from the hundreds of people packed into the throne room that at last forced her from her thoughts. It was far louder than usual, so much that she very nearly clamped her hands over her ears and had to take a deep breath to clear away the faint sensation of being too closed in for her liking. When she had sufficiently composed herself she followed Haiweth to the main table, where her brother, Lothíriel, and the royal family of Dol Amroth were situated.

Éomer nodded approvingly at her outfit before gesturing for her to sit at his side. Gúthwyn bade farewell to Haiweth, who was going to find her friends, and then gratefully assumed her place next to her brother. Unfortunately, there were two problems with this: her uncomfortably close proximity to Legolas and Elphir. The Elf was directly next to her, while the latter was diagonally across from her.

Elphir's suddenly stony expression and Legolas's cautious greeting were enough to make her wish that she had not obeyed Éomer, but clearly her brother was happy to see her as he asked how her training had gone.

"It went well," Gúthwyn replied, giving a small wave to Elfwine when the baby pointed at her. "Although I lost to Gamling."

Éomer raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"

"I was not on form," Gúthwyn confessed sheepishly. "I was tired from fighting Elfhelm and Erkenbrand, but I should have been faster with my movements."

"We all have to lose at some time," Éomer said, smiling at her. "Even you, baby sister."

Gúthwyn laughed, yet just then Elfwine screeched her name from Lothíriel's lap.

"Son, calm yourself," Éomer said sternly, but for all the good his words did he might as well have been talking to a wall. Elfwine merely frowned at him.

"Gúthy!" he shouted, reaching across the table for her. "Want Gúthy!"

Imrahil chuckled. "I pray that your sister does not take offense at this," he said in an undertone to Gúthwyn.

"Not at all," Gúthwyn replied, smiling. "I expect that when next he sees her he shall be excited to talk to his oldest aunt."

The baby's cries continued until at last Lothíriel, her cheeks flaming red, leaned over and asked Gúthwyn if she would mind holding him.

"Of course not," Gúthwyn said, and then stretched her arms out to receive her nephew. Elfwine cackled as they were reunited and promptly set about playing with her hair. "Hello, little one," she murmured, kissing his brow. His skin had grown softer since she had last held him, if such a thing was possible.

"Horse!" Elfwine exclaimed, pointing at his father's shirt. A pattern of stallions had been embroidered along the bottom hem.

Lothíriel did not seem at all amused. "Shall I signal to the servants?" she asked Éomer.

"Aye, everyone must be here," Éomer agreed, lifting his dark eyes to gaze around at the people who had filed in. Gúthwyn did the same, noting with pleasure that the Rohirrim occupied far more tables than did those of Dol Amroth. Whether by chance or intent, the guards had placed themselves closest to the mead. Tun, however, was not amongst them.

Within minutes, the servants had begun circulating the room, distributing large platters laden with various dishes. Gúthwyn had never seen half of them before, as the cooks had taken care to prepare foods that were consumed in Dol Amroth. Unfortunately, this meant that the rather nauseating smell of fish now penetrated the air, and she felt a queasy turn in her stomach as a platter of unidentifiable meat was put near her.

Trying to breathe through her mouth, she looked down at Elfwine, who had no such inhibitions of courtesy and was wrinkling his nose in protest.

"It is trout," Legolas explained then.

"W-What?" Gúthwyn asked, not having expected him to talk to her. She was keenly aware of how close their arms were, and surreptitiously wrapped her own around Elfwine.

"Trout," Legolas repeated, gesturing at the plate that had thoroughly repulsed Gúthwyn and her nephew. "Although I have never seen it displayed like that before."

She glanced up at him, his blue eyes meeting hers for a second until she looked away and inquired, "Do you have it often?"

Legolas nodded. "The River Poros is the southern border of Ithilien," he explained, "and there are other streams closer to us."

"Luckily, the nearest river to us is the Snowbourn," Gúthwyn said, casting another doubtful glance at the fish. "Otherwise, we might have to eat that more often, which would be most unfortunate."

"It is not so terrible as you might think," Legolas replied, smirking. "I am rather fond of it, actually."

Gúthwyn flushed at her mistake, but she was even more embarrassed when she looked up and saw Prince Imrahil watching her amusedly. Her voice, which she had lowered before opining about the appearance of the dish from Dol Amroth, must have traveled further than she thought. Éomer shook his head in exasperation, seeming as though he had contracted a sudden head cold.

"Do not worry, young lady," Imrahil said, chuckling. "I am afraid many visitors to our home have difficulty adjusting to the food. It really is quite excellent, once you get past the smell."

"I-I did not m-mean…" Gúthwyn stammered, her face burning in mortification. "I-It was not m-my intent—I d-did not—"

Words could not describe her humiliation. Already she had mocked Imrahil's people; food was not so serious an offense, but what else might spill from her clumsy lips? To make matters even worse, both Elphir and Lothíriel were staring coldly at her.

"Pray do not trouble yourself," Imrahil said kindly, observing her discomfort. "You are not old enough to be getting wrinkles."

Gúthwyn's spirits lifted slightly at his comment, but the best she could manage was a weak laugh. Legolas gave her a sympathetic smile, yet at that moment Elfwine planted his soft hands on her stomach and attempted to stand up on her lap.

"Let me help you, little one," she whispered, holding his fists so that her abdomen did not have to be subject to his touch. With her assistance, he was able to get to his feet, and giggled when she began bouncing him. "Are you having fun?" she asked him, determinedly not letting her eyes rest on the others around them.

"No," Elfwine scoffed, and then shrieked in delight when she tickled his chin.

"Sister, are you not going to eat anything?"

The question, discreetly voiced, was nevertheless overheard by Legolas, who glanced at her as she turned to Éomer. "I am entertaining my favorite nephew," she replied, poking Elfwine in the nose. He grabbed at her own, making her laugh. "I will have something when he has tired himself out."

Éomer studied her for a moment, but when she said nothing else he nodded and returned to his own meal. He was almost immediately drawn into a conversation by Lothíriel and Imrahil; Gúthwyn and Elfwine were left to their own devices as the chatter in Meduseld rose to a cheerful crescendo. Everyone was in good spirits, something that pleased her greatly.

While Elfwine babbled in his own language, she took a moment to observe the great hall. The table at which the guards had seated themselves was already the loudest, and was steadily gaining in noise. There would certainly be no drinking contests tonight, due to the presence of the delegation from Dol Amroth, but the men were more than willing to compensate for that with numerous trips to the still.

"Gúthy, horse!" Elfwine exclaimed impatiently, pointing at one of the pillars upon which the animal had been engraved.

"That is a very special horse, little one," Gúthwyn said, her mind already weaving together a story. "He is one of the _Mearas_, who can run faster than any other stallion."

Elfwine's attention was fixated upon her as she continued her tale, speaking of how one day the _Mearh_ had wandered from his home into the Fangorn Forest. She told him about the Ents and the Huorns, as well as anything else she could think of. Hobbits were brought into the story at one point, along with a wizard who very closely resembled Gandalf the White. When at last he became fidgety, she concocted a short end and kissed his brow. Done and yearning for sustenance, he abruptly sat back down on her lap and reached out for the bread basket.

"Are you hungry, little one?" Gúthwyn asked, glancing at Lothíriel. The queen was conversing with Elphir, clearly doing her best to engage him. Her brother's responses were forced and brief—he obviously had no desire to be at the table. Often he looked at Gúthwyn, but his expression turned foul whenever he did so, and he quickly turned away.

Since Lothíriel was otherwise occupied, and Éomer was busy entertaining Imrahil with some anecdote about one of his earlier experiences as a Marshal, Gúthwyn took it upon herself to get some food for her nephew, and promptly set about the task. She knew he was partial to potatoes, and made sure to put a good amount of those on her plate. He grabbed eagerly at them almost before she had set down the dish.

"Want," he demanded.

Smiling merrily, hopelessly in love with the baby in her lap, she mashed the potatoes with her spoon and began feeding him, completely oblivious to her surroundings. They had blurred together in a cheery haze, serving as pleasant music to her ears and weaving a comfortable blanket of warmth around her. She was enjoying this gathering exceedingly, even if the people of Dol Amroth were there.

"I must admit, that was a very entertaining story."

Gúthwyn tensed at Legolas's remark, but the action was almost imperceptible. A red flush spread across her cheeks as she asked, "Was I too loud?"

A quick glance around the table told her that no one was watching her, but she had finished speaking a couple of minutes ago.

"Not at all," Legolas replied, sending a wave of relief through her. "I just could not help but overhear it. Were the two Hobbits Merry and Pippin, perchance?"

Gúthwyn smiled. "Yes, they were," she answered. "I suppose their love for _lembas_ rather gave it away."

"Just a little," Legolas admitted with a grin. "And while I daresay you could have been referring to any Halfling, it was they who came to my mind."

Éomund's daughter was about to respond when she was whacked in the face by her nephew. This would have been small cause for consternation, had the hand in question not been covered in mushy potatoes.

"Oh, little one," she said with a sigh, and reached for the napkin to wipe his fingers and then her cheek. "If you desire my attention, ask, not hit."

"No," Elfwine muttered stubbornly, pointing at the remaining food on her plate. "Want!"

"Sister, I can take him," Éomer interjected then. "I think he has caused more than enough trouble."

"Are you sure?" Gúthwyn asked, brushing away the last of the potatoes from her face. "I do not mind, he—"

"You need to eat," Éomer interrupted her, his tone light but his eyes fixed intently on hers.

There would be no arguing. Gúthwyn relented, scooping Elfwine into her arms and handing him over to his father. There was a loud screech of "Gúthy!" as her nephew changed caretakers, but once he was settled he promptly started badgering Éomer for food. Éomund's daughter was left to herself, and exhaling softly she ladled a small amount of soup into her bowl. A slice of bread was added, though it was not as big as usual because her stomach was still uneasy from the trout.

After satisfying some of her hunger, she glanced around the table, trying to determine whom she might safely talk to. Having already possibly offended Imrahil, she did not dare test her luck again; nor did she see any favorable prospects when she looked at Elphir. Her shoulders slumped. Why was he going to such lengths to avoid her? She almost would have preferred him yelling—though she could not imagine what she had done to merit that—than this silence.

"Are you all right?"

The quiet inquiry startled her, but this time she instinctively turned to Legolas. "I am fine," she responded after a second, making a half-hearted attempt at a smile. "Is the food to your liking?"

"It is," Legolas said, "especially the trout."

She chuckled, but any further mirth was checked by the recollection of how she had embarrassed herself in front of the ruler of Dol Amroth. With another sigh, she resumed eating her food, setting it aside once she had finished and absently observing her people. Now that most of them had consumed their meals, a couple of musicians had pulled out their instruments and begun playing a lively tune.

In moments, tables had been pushed off to the side and the cleared area was filled up with dancers. Chief among them were the guards, who were drunk enough so that they were more exuberant than usual but not so inebriated that they would embarrass their king in front of his guests. Gúthwyn grinned as she watched them, wondering how soon she could leave the table without insulting anyone.

Then she paused. Would it be seemly for her to dance with someone in Elphir's presence? She had certainly held no inhibitions about the practice while they were in negotiations, for she was friends with all of the men and knew that nothing romantic lay between them, but she suddenly feared the prince might not see it that way. After all, something had happened to make him not desire her as his wife—what if he thought even less of her for dancing with other men so shortly after the occasion?

_Why should it matter?_ she asked herself. _After all, I am free now. Why should I care about his opinion?_

But the truth was, she did hold Elphir in high esteem. She wanted them to be friends again, and did not wish to do anything to jeopardize that. Yet surely dancing with her own companions was no source for malicious gossip—how could it be, when some of them were married and others, like Elfhelm and Gamling, far older than her? No one had ever commented about her relationships with the soldiers, she reminded herself, and therefore nothing could possibly be wrong with the idea.

While she was musing, she caught sight of Cobryn making his way through the crowd. He disappeared before she could hail him, but he was likely returning to the other advisors and it would not be difficult to find him. Having wanted to speak with him ever since witnessing Hammel and Aldeth's argument, she quickly excused herself on the pretense of needing a drink. Éomer was too busy talking to even notice her absence.

Halfway to her destination, she got stuck in a large crowd that had formed around the still. Cursing her foolishness, for only someone hoping to get mauled would have chosen her route, she gave up trying to fight her way through and decided to wait until they had filled their cups. Luckily, it was not long before she found herself standing next to Elfhelm. He greeted her cheerily and asked where her tankard was.

After explaining the situation, Gúthwyn added, "Besides, you know very well I cannot hold my liquor."

Elfhelm snorted. "Aye, that I am aware of. I must say, you made a most unbecoming display of yourself at that feast."

Gúthwyn flushed, trying not to recall how she had gotten spectacularly drunk after consuming a single goblet of mead and had almost passed out right at the table. The day after had been worse: after a massive headache, she had spent several hours throwing up, unable to keep anything down.

"I did not know it would affect me so," she protested feebly. "If I had, I would never have had so much."

"Pitiful," Elfhelm agreed, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "I think even a babe could have more without becoming so intoxicated."

She gave him a mock glare. "Not all of us are capable of downing an entire still's worth of wine in one night."

He smirked. "Practice, my lady. I would offer to teach you, but then Éomer would have me publicly executed."

"It makes no difference, because I do not want to learn," Gúthwyn retorted, shifting over as one of the Dol Amroth servants slipped into the line.

"Yes, that is what your sister said," Elfhelm laughed. "But even she was able to have a couple of mugs whenever the occasion arose."

Gúthwyn could not picture Éowyn doing that. "When was this?" she demanded in surprise.

"Before Wormtongue's influence reached dangerous heights," Elfhelm answered, spitting out the name of the Serpent. "After that, she did not deem it safe."

The fists of Éomund's daughter were white from being clenched so hard. "I wish I had been the one to kill that snake," she snarled. "He is a foul—"

"Let us not cloud tonight with memories of him," Elfhelm said quietly. "It would not do to have your face creased with wrinkles."

Gúthwyn could not help but laugh at his teasing, and gave him a playful shove. "Have it your way," she giggled. "In any case, I think I will go find Cobryn now." The crowd had thinned out somewhat; she did not wish to delay.

"Good luck tearing him away from the advisors," Elfhelm chuckled, rolling his eyes. "He might make an exception for you, but when I passed his table all of them seemed to be in a debate about something. Probably the price of sheepskin or something equally dull."

Sighing in pretend exasperation, Gúthwyn said, "Well, I shall attempt to pull him from his discourse… perhaps I shall even get him to dance."

Elfhelm laughed. "You would be better off teaching your nephew how to use a sword."

"It does not matter, anyway," Gúthwyn suddenly spoke, her shoulders slumping as she recalled the vow she had given Amrothos. "I just remembered that I have promised Imrahil's son Amrothos that I will spend my first turn with him—I should not have left the table!"

_Now he will think I am rude,_ she thought despairingly. Why was she always committing these blunders?

"Another admirer?" Elfhelm asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Hardly," Gúthwyn scoffed, her cheeks nevertheless bright red at the Marshal's accusation. "Though," she added, lowering her voice, "I am hoping that he will tell me more about why Elphir abandoned our negotiations."

"Good luck," Elfhelm bade her, this time seriously. Like Éomer, he and her other male friends had been outraged on her behalf when the insult became known to the general public. While she felt no remorse at the course of events, it was nice to know that they did not think any less of her for being rejected by a prince.

More earnestly than usual, Gúthwyn thanked him and began making her way back to the table. She would have to wait until later to talk to Cobryn about what had transpired between Hammel and Aldeth; right now, there was a prince waiting to dance with her.

As it turned out, she was intercepted by said royalty before she had even gone halfway across the hall. "I was beginning to fear that I should never find you," Amrothos greeted her, intertwining their arms.

Gúthwyn started nervously, but he was already leading her out to where the other dancers were. "Amrothos—" she began, trying to pull away. With the exception of Tun, she had never been this close to her partners.

"Are you trying to break your promise?" Amrothos asked amusedly. "I thought the Rohirrim were renowned for their loyalty."

"Nay, it is not—"

"Then surely, there should be nothing wrong with a man wanting to dance with a woman."

His logic outweighed her own arguments, fueled by memories of a horrific past but not sound at all. The other couples around them had all walked out in a similar manner, and there was no excuse for her not to do the same. Furthermore, because they were partners, he had every right to touch her in a way that was consistent with the steps. Despite her squeamishness at being so intimate with a near-stranger, she would have to endure it or risk offending her guest.

She kept this in mind as the musicians struck up a lively tune. It was painfully obvious from the first few chords that Amrothos was a far better dancer than her. While most of her friends were barely competent enough to laugh at her missteps, Imrahil must have hired an instructor for his son at an excessively early age. She felt vastly inferior with each stumble; he, on the other hand, guided her through them with such grace that it almost rivaled Lothíriel's.

"I am sorry," Gúthwyn apologized at one point, after she had just stepped on his foot. She was cringing in mortification as she said, "I must be making you look like a fool in front of your friends—"

"Not at all," Amrothos assured her, his hand sliding down to her waist so that he had a better hold on her. Though most other couples were positioned in the same way, Gúthwyn could not stop the small butterflies that began fluttering in her stomach. She did not like to be touched there at all, and it was beginning to bring back memories of Haldor that she desperately wanted to forget.

Luckily, the dance soon ended. They separated, her feeling a surge of relief as she was removed from his reach. He was perfectly friendly as he bid her farewell, so that a guilty flush spread across her cheeks for being so paranoid, but she could not easily overlook his touch.

She had little time to ruminate upon these sentiments, however. No sooner had Amrothos departed than Gamling approached her and requested the next dance, laughing as he did so at the ineptitude she had displayed with the prince. She of course was unable to resist taunting him in return; from there on, the evening was a whirlwind of different partners and laughter. She remained on the floor longer than usual, partly because returning to the table would mean returning to Elphir.

But at last the time came when the musicians were joined by fiddlers, minstrels, and harpers from Dol Amroth. The resulting waltzes were primarily for the people of the sea, who before had not been so enticed by those of the Eorlingas. Within moments, the masses of dark clothing had been replaced by bright-colored gowns and glittering jewels. While some of the guards had a good laugh attempting the steps, Gúthwyn was among the majority of her people who elected to sit out and watch the visitors.

She had to admit, she had rarely seen women who carried themselves with more grace. Lothíriel clearly bested them all in the art—to her surprise, Éomer was more than capable of keeping up with her. Lady Míriel, naturally, won herself more than a few admiring looks from the men she drew near, but her hand remained firmly clasped in her husband's.

Deciding to retire from the crowds, Gúthwyn began wending her way to where she thought Cobryn was, determined to speak to him about what she had seen with Hammel and Aldeth. He was the only person who could claim to know the boy as well as she did; if he could not provide some reasoning or some explanation for what had transpired, then it was a lost cause.

Luckily, it took her only a few minutes to locate him. True to Elfhelm's word, he was sitting with the other advisors, in the middle of what looked like a ferocious debate. Gúthwyn smiled as she drew closer, wondering whether it was not after all the price of sheepskin, just as the Marshal had wagered.

"I cannot believe you have the nerve to discuss this here," Cobryn snarled then, making her start. His back was to her, so she could not see his face—yet even so, she did not think they were discussing sheep anymore. "Do you realize that we are surrounded by people from Dol Amroth, not to mention others who would have more than a few things to say about this?"

"Of course I realize that," Aldor said dismissively. "You are defensive because she is your friend, but the fact of the matter is that Éomer will want her to find a husband, especially after this embarrassment."

Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat.

"The fact of the matter _is,_" Cobryn spat, "that the two of you have forced her to endure this search for far longer than you have any right to."

"In case you have forgotten, boy," Aldor retorted, "her brother is the king of Rohan, and you have to obey _his_ rules. If he wants her to be wedded, then she will be wedded, whether the two of you like it or not."

"You are not looking at this rationally," Aldhelm added. "As we have pointed out to you numerous times, she is still young enough so that she can bear children, and while her capabilities in the household leave something to be desired, she is not hopeless."

"And as long as she pleases her husband, then…"

Aldor's voice faded into the distance as Gúthwyn whirled around and stormed away, all thoughts of Hammel forgotten. Her eyes were blurring as she fought through the crowd; furiously she dried them, determined not to show her weakness in front of everyone. The anger she felt was dampened only by a sudden terror that Éomer really was contemplating another betrothal for her.

When at last she saw her brother, he and Lothíriel had retired back to the table, and were conversing with Imrahil while Elfwine napped in his mother's arms. Gúthwyn strode over to them, barely restraining herself from glaring at Éomer.

"Hello, sister," Éomer greeted her, and then paused. "Are you feeling well?"

"May I have some of your time?" she asked, struggling not to sound impolite. While she had every intention of yelling at him once they were alone, she did not want to make another spectacle of herself in front of the prince of Dol Amroth.

"Of course," Éomer immediately said. "Please, excuse us," he added to Lothíriel and Imrahil.

For good measure, Gúthwyn curtsied to their guest and apologized for the disruption, but the instant Éomer had gotten to his feet she was leading him out of the great hall.

"Where are we going?" he questioned, looking distinctly bewildered as they passed the throne.

"A place where we will not be heard," Gúthwyn answered shortly, and then ducked into the corridor heading to her chambers. Once they had gone a safe distance away from the celebrations, she growled, "Tell me why your advisors were discussing my marriage prospects!"

Éomer blinked. "What?"

"I just heard them!" she cried, pointing violently in the direction of the councilors. "They were saying that you want to find me a husband because of what happened with Elphir! Is this true?"

Her brother shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Gúthwyn, you are—"

"Éomer!" she exclaimed. "Yes or no, answer me!"

"Sister, calm down," he muttered, casting an uneasy glance at the festivities.

"Answer me!" she nearly shrieked.

Neither of them noticed the door to Hammel's room cracking open.

"Yes," he sighed at last. "It is true."

Gúthwyn's jaw dropped. "How _could_ you?" she hissed, hardly able to breathe. "After Elphir just—"

"This has nothing to do with Elphir," Éomer said wearily, holding up his hand, "so please do not pretend it does. I know you do not love him. I am not as unaware of your emotions as you believe."

She gaped at him, unable to form a proper retort.

"Listen to me, that is all I ask," Éomer continued, taking advantage of her silence. "I had hoped that, as time went on, you would grow more accustomed to being his wife—and yes, even come to love him. What I wanted was for you to forget about Mordor, though I should have realized what a foolish desire that was. It seemed not so impossible then, for I know you were partial to him upon the commencement of negotiations and still are now. Yet you seem determined to remain in the past! Why do you insist on starving yourself, when it will only remind you of what Haldor did to get you to eat? Why do you keep reading that book, when it will only bring tears to your eyes? Nearly everything you do is because you are holding onto memories of what happened six years ago—why can you not try to move on?"

"You think it is so easy," Gúthwyn choked out, struggling to keep herself from sobbing, "to just _forget_ about Haldor—or do you already not remember me telling you about what he did? Is it that easy, Éomer, to send me off to a loveless marriage where I will have to—have to _please_ my husband in our bed? In a place where I-I do not know anyone, where I am so far away from my family that by the time I get letters, they will be a month old? And by doing this, you think I will be _better_ for it?"

"When have I ever done something to hurt you?" Éomer pressed her. "Sister, you know nothing of being wedded to another. I do not expect you to see reason, but I want you to trust me when I say I have only your best interests in mind."

She could barely speak for fury. "You—"

"Now is not the time to be discussing this," Éomer cut her off, shaking his head. "I have guests who are wondering where I am, and no doubt your disappearance has not gone unnoticed. If it so bothers you, I will speak to the advisors in the morning and tell them to be more discreet."

"More _discreet?_" Gúthwyn echoed incredulously. "What about telling them to _stop?_ I do not want you to arrange a marriage for me! If I find a man that I love, I shall wed him, and that is the end of that! _Please_ stop trying to force me into a union with another!"

Éomer was already walking away from her. "Sister," he said, pausing right before he rejoined the crowds and meeting her eyes, "you need to get your life back together. I am only trying to help."

With that, he left her standing there, clutching her fists and shaking like a fragile leaf being battered about by the winds.

* * *

**A/N:** Someone left an anonymous review asking when this story was going to be finished--an entirely fair question, considering this is the eighty-second chapter and we're only on the first book. I know a lot of you (maybe even all) are going to groan when you read this, but to be honest, I'm maybe halfway done. I always knew the epilogue was going to be long, but I was definitely taken by surprise when I realized exactly how long we were talking about. Part of this is my fault: I am aware that, as a writer, I tend to be slow in setting up the plot and carrying it out. I am trying to move things along faster, but I don't want to compromise the quality of my work and I don't want you guys to feel cheated in any aspect of the story. 

I completely understand if, after this, you don't want to read anymore. I would probably lose patience myself. If it helps, I do know exactly where the plotline is going. I know how I'm going to get there, what I need to do, and how it's going to end. Gúthwyn will in fact recover, even though now she seems like, well, a wimp. I just thought you deserved to know how long I'm going to be writing her story, because it doesn't seem fair to leave you in the dark about when things are supposed to be wrapping up.

While I'm on my little soapbox, I'd like to say thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing! I know I've said this a million times, but receiving your responses really does brighten my day. I hope you continue to enjoy the rest of this story!


	83. Too Close For Comfort

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighty-Three:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eighty-Three**

"I _hate_ him," Gúthwyn whispered to herself as she stepped outside, finally free from the confines of the Golden Hall. She took a long, deep breath of the sweet evening air, feeling some of her anger ebbing away as she did so. The brunt of it was still there, however; she was horrified that Éomer would still consider marrying her to someone, and that he had almost given her away to Elphir knowing that she did not love him.

After their exchange, she had not returned to the festivities. Instead, she had retreated to the safety of her chambers, only to fall into an uneasy sleep and later awake from a nightmare. Now she was here in an attempt to clear her mind, which was crowded with conflicting images: Éomer telling her she needed to get her life together, Elphir walking away from her at the feast, Aldor and Aldhelm discussing her marriage prospects.

She shivered in revulsion at the thought. _How could Éomer condone their actions?_ she wondered. _How can he possibly believe that wedding another will truly make me happy?_

"My life is fine," she argued quietly. "I have Hammel and Haiweth, what more could I…"

Nay, she could not convince even herself. Yes, a union with another would have made her happy—a union with a man who was long dead. Over five years had passed since he had been felled by Faramir's arrow, but the pain was still there, gnawing away at her heart each day she spent without him. How she wished… no, wishing would not help her. Nothing could.

Her misery was so acute that at first she did not hear one of the doors opening, but when it closed she knew without looking who it would be.

"There are only a few stars tonight," she said, sighing. "I am afraid you will not be able to see many."

Legolas moved closer to the edge of the landing, noting that it was indeed so. "Some are better than none," he replied, and lowered himself onto the step beside her. They were now at opposite ends of the stairs.

Gúthwyn swallowed, staring at the distant mountains without really seeing them. She could not help but quiver, though the evening was relatively warm.

"Did you leave the feast early?" Legolas inquired then, still gazing up at the stars.

"H-How did you know?" Gúthwyn questioned, surprised. She had thought that only Cobryn would notice; Elfwine might have at one point, though he would have been easily diverted with a toy. Even Haiweth had likely not missed her, for she had an abundance of friends and did not need her company.

"I was looking for you," Legolas explained. "I had hoped to ask you for a dance. Éomer thought you might have retired to your chambers."

"Oh," Gúthwyn said, taken aback. She drew her cloak more tightly around her at the mention of her brother. "I-I am sorry, then; I was not aware."

Legolas smiled. "I would have sought you out earlier, but what appeared to be all the guards in Edoras were faster than I."

In spite of herself, Gúthwyn could not help but laugh. "Aye," she agreed. "They are wonderful men."

All except one. Tun she had not seen the entire night—she supposed that he had remained in Brithwen's company throughout the feast. She longed for the days of their old friendship, but after two years of awkward silences and faltering conversation she was beginning to lose hope that this could be so. If only he had asked her on any other day… and yet, she could not regret her refusal. Now he had a good wife, one he deserved far more than her.

"Were you feeling ill?"

Gúthwyn started at the inquiry, and then quickly shook her head. "Nay, I left because I was…" On the verge of saying "tired," she bit her lip and wondered why she was lying so often to people. Exhaling, she said, "Éomer and I got into an argument."

Legolas did not respond, but the look in her his eyes told her that he was still listening intently. "My brother… he still wishes for me to find a husband."

"So soon?" Legolas asked, astonished.

Shrugging, Gúthwyn replied, "I do not know when he desires to start looking again. Yet already the advisors are beginning to discuss my prospects… as if I am a horse that they are hoping to sell to the highest bidder!"

"I am sure that is not their intent," Legolas assured her, his eyes widening at her bitterness. "They must have—"

"They were saying at this very feast, where Elphir's people were surrounding them, that I am still young enough to have children a-and to please my spouse!" Gúthwyn cried, her voice rising no matter how hard she tried to control herself. "If the most foul man in the world wanted to marry me, they would accept him had he powerful enough connections!"

Her voice hitched. She did not want to admit, even to herself, how much Éomer's designs had hurt her. And for him to have the nerve to say it was for her own good… no, she did not know what it was like to be married. But what did it matter, when there was no man to whom she would give her heart? What did it matter, when the person chosen as her husband would have the right of taking her to his bed whenever he pleased?

"Éomer loves you," Legolas reminded her. "He would never have you wed someone you despised."

"At this point, I would almost rather marry someone I hated than have to pretend I was in love with someone I respected," Gúthwyn muttered. They had already gone down that road with Elphir—and a ruined friendship was the result. "Yet I would prefer not to become a wife at all."

"Have you told Éomer your objections?"

"That was what our argument was about," Gúthwyn sighed. "He says that I need to"—there was a noticeable pause—"find someone so that any suspicions about Hammel and Haiweth will be allayed."

"There is but a few years' difference between you and Hammel, is there not?"

"Eleven," Gúthwyn corrected him, "yet nevertheless some people still think that I am his mother." Her mind flashed back to all the encounters with the Gondorian nobles she had experienced during her stay at the White City; they had all frowned upon her, some so much that Éomer had had to intervene and frighten them into submission. In the presence of the king of Rohan, they would not dare to condescend his sister.

"If they still speculate about the children's parents, I doubt a husband would change things," Legolas pointed out. "Your brother's intentions are honorable, but it seems to me that the gossip will not be so easily forgotten."

Gúthwyn bit her lip. There were so many other reasons why Éomer wished for her to have a spouse, but she could not allude to them. "Aye, it will not," was what she said, her gaze instinctively turning towards the direction of the Dol Amroth tents. Even in the middle of the night, she could see a banner bearing the emblem of a swan fluttering in the breeze.

A silence fell between her and Legolas, in which she surreptitiously glanced at the Elf and wondered that she could be speaking to him so easily, so openly about her troubles. A few months ago, she would not have believed it possible. Perhaps it was because Rohan's other visitors were so unsatisfactory; Legolas knew her better than any of them, and since the disintegration of her companionship with Elphir she could not unguardedly converse with anyone from Dol Amroth. Additionally, Legolas had gone out of his way to be courteous to her—despite all of her actions that had merited the contrary—and had never viewed her with disapproval. There was something to be said for nobility who did not look down upon women.

At length, the quiet settling over them was broken when Legolas asked, "What of Elphir? Have you talked to him?"

"I have tried," Gúthwyn responded, "though I have no success to speak of for it. I do not think he even wishes for me to be around his son." She felt a small pang of remorse at this. Alphros was an adorable boy, and he had taken well to her on his last visit. Whereas before she was prepared to be a mother figure to him, now she was forbidden from simply talking to him. Elphir had made that much clear upon their arrival.

"Perhaps he merely does not know how to approach you," Legolas suggested, his eyes meeting hers.

"Nay, he takes all possible opportunities to avoid me," Gúthwyn replied. "You were not there when we met Imrahil—the only reason he returned my greeting was because his father would have him do it. He despises me now, but I do not know why."

In absence of Cobryn, Legolas was turning out to be a surprisingly good confidante. Regardless of how he felt about her problems, there was no one to whom he could reveal them: none of the Elves were troubled by her concerns, and it was quite reasonable to assume that half of them knew nothing more about her besides her name and position—if that. Raniean and Trelan were the only ones who even spoke the Common Tongue.

"Do you believe it to be a misunderstanding?" Legolas asked, knitting his brow. "It seems that a man of his station would not treat a lady so poorly."

Gúthwyn flushed. She was hardly a lady; not a conventional one, anyway, as the women from Dol Amroth had so quickly realized.

"I wish it were," she remarked. "However, he stopped writing to me long ago. That does not seem like a misunderstanding to me."

"Ah." Once again, they were silent, ruminating upon… well, there was every chance that Legolas's thoughts had nothing to do with her. The mind of Éomund's daughter had turned to another link in the puzzle: Amrothos.

For the life of her, she could not determine why he had taken such an interest in her. Could he be acting on behalf of his brother, hoping to get close enough so that he might confirm or deny whatever suspicions Elphir may have had of her? Despite his protests to the contrary, she highly doubted that he could be as in the dark about the eldest prince's thoughts as he insisted. She was certainly doing something similar—part of her felt guilty that she was using him for information about his brother, but it was not unlikely that he was doing the same thing.

Then there was the fact that every muscle in her body yearned to be away from him whenever they conversed. While he had never been anything but polite, he always managed to seem more forward than anyone she had ever met. He interrupted her constantly, always when she attempted to ask him about Elphir. The way he addressed her was as if they had known each other their entire lives, rather than having an acquaintance of a couple visits. Perhaps it was his nature: there were some who were outgoing no matter the situation in which they were placed. It may very well have been that he was attempting to smooth over any unpleasantness or awkwardness that they might have to endure throughout his family's stay.

Sighing, she wrapped her arms around herself and stared off into the distance. The broad plains in front of Edoras, normally empty and rustling with long grasses, were now overcrowded with large, gaudy tents. There were more than even Éomer had anticipated, as Imrahil had offered to bring some entertainers with him—though for what purpose, her brother was being mysteriously close-mouthed—and it was lucky that they had brought their own tents, for there were excessively high numbers of them. The only saving grace of the Dol Amroth camp was that it was removed from the barrows in which her ancestors lay.

_I wish they would just leave already,_ she thought irritably. She was not anticipating the upcoming month. In one of her more serious errors, she had all but proclaimed herself an enemy of Lady Míriel and her friends. To make things even worse, she had insulted the food of Dol Amroth in front of Prince Imrahil, and unless the Valar intervened would probably continue to do commit similar blunders.

"Come again?"

Legolas's question startled her. "What?" she asked, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

Her fears were confirmed when he smirked and explained, "I thought it was only the food of Dol Amroth you held little regard for, not its people."

Gúthwyn felt her face turning bright red. "I-I did not mean to… to… th-that was not what I-I—" She was caught, and they both knew it. "By the Valar," she muttered at last, burying her face in her hands. "I seem bent on making a fool out of myself today."

Legolas's voice held no trace of annoyance, no sign of reproach as he inquired, "What about them do you not like?"

Gúthwyn shook her head. "I have complained too much," she murmured. "I should not… I have already embarrassed my brother."

"You need not have such inhibitions now," Legolas said quietly. "Éomer is not around, and I will not think any less of you for it."

Exhaling slowly, Gúthwyn weighed her options. She could either complain to Legolas in private, or to Cobryn sometime in the afternoon, when she was more likely to be overheard if they were in a public enough place. Making a bargain with herself, she decided that she would take Legolas up on his offer—yet she would not breathe a word against the people of Dol Amroth during the daytime.

Both her conscience and her vindictive side assuaged by this compromise, she took a deep breath and began, "I have not met any of the men, but the women are some of the most frivolous beings on Middle-earth."

Legolas chuckled. "I cannot disagree with you there. At first I thought myself underdressed for the feast, so much jewelry were they wearing."

Gúthwyn could not help but smile. "All they saw fit to discuss with me when they arrived were samplers. After finding out I had never made one, they decided that I was not worthy of their company. I had not even heard of one before yesterday! Have you?"

"Yes," Legolas admitted, looking as if he were vaguely tempted to laugh.

_Of course,_ Gúthwyn thought to herself. _Even a prince knows what they are!_

"Well, I had not," she at last managed, speaking to her knees. "And later, I overheard them insulting my people."

Her tone turned foul; her muscles were now taut with anger, rather than humiliation. "They said that they were all in dire need of a bath," she spat, "calling us crude and accusing us all of being dirt-poor! And then they turned their attentions to Éomer… they called him a 'fine catch' and…"

Furiously, she wiped her eyes. Legolas looked appalled.

"They said such things," he began, "about their hosts?"

Gúthwyn nodded, her every movement rigid with hatred. "Cobryn was right," she added, recalling their conversation before the dissolution of her marriage, "when he told me that they were all vicious and cared not one whit for anyone other than themselves!"

Her breathing was becoming uneven; she was starting to lose her vision, the massive tents in the distance turning into bright red spots that blurred with her rage. That noblewomen could be so poorly raised was a monstrous reality making itself all too clear to her. The society of Dol Amroth was everything she had imagined it to be, and worse. She could only thank the Valar that she had not been forced to live amongst its circles.

"Are you all right?"

She lifted her head at the sound of Legolas's soft voice. For a long time, she could not speak. It had just dawned on her how _not_ all right she was. This whole situation—the knowledge that she was but fodder for the Dol Amroth gossip mill, her utter helplessness to discover why Elphir was ignoring her, the sensations of instability and doubt that plagued her whenever she was with Amrothos, and especially her argument with Éomer—was closing in on her as the walls in her room at night, trapping her, making flight an impossibility.

And looming over everything was the shadow of her past, taking its form in the Elf beside her.

There was nothing she could do but shake her head. "It is going to be a long month," she whispered, exhaling.

Legolas regarded her for a moment. "This may be too forward," he began, glancing away and then capturing her eyes once more, "but it might relieve your mind to take a walk."

Gúthwyn's heart skipped several beats; she could actually feel her face turn pale. Haldor had once invited her to go on a walk with him… it had just been another string in the web of deceit he had ensnared her with.

"No," she breathed, shaking her head quickly. Her palms were sweating. "I-I am fine, thank you."

"Nay, accept my apologies," Legolas answered just as swiftly. "I did not mean… it was not my intent to be so bold. Please, forgive me."

"Y-You do not have to say you are sorry," Gúthwyn responded, growing more flustered by the minute. "Really, it is fine. I am fine. Do you—do you often take walks?"

"After particularly strenuous meetings with my father," Legolas said dryly, still studying her closely.

Gúthwyn swallowed. "I-Is he strict?"

Legolas nodded. "That might be a bit of an understatement," he chuckled. "He can be very intimidating when he wishes to be."

_Just like Éomer,_ she thought morosely. _Simply replace "strict" with "the most overbearing brother in existence."_

_Oh, stop it!_ another part of her scolded. _You should be grateful that you have him! Remember the years when you would have given anything for a glimpse of him? For him to say a single word to you? For the guarantee that he was _alive? _And now you want him to stop trying to help you recover? His attempts may be misguided, but he cares for you all the same!_

Yet she could not help but think, _If only he did not have to care so much._

* * *

"Hello, my friend," Gúthwyn greeted Heorot, slipping into his stall after having finally managed to get a moment to herself. The late afternoon sun was streaming in through the rafters, a testimony to the difficulty of that task. She let out a relieved sigh as she produced a carrot, saying, "I am sorry I did not get to visit you yesterday." 

Heorot gave her a reproachful look, and was only somewhat placated by her offering. He snorted half-heartedly as she retrieved a brush and began to groom him.

"How are you holding up?" she asked quietly, stroking his mane. Her eyes flicked over the patches of skin marring his once glossy coat. It seemed as though every day they grew in number. Weeks had passed since the last time they rode faster than a canter; she was beginning to doubt that it was safe for her to be even trotting with him. He tired within minutes, his breathing always alarmingly loud.

Moving the comb carefully, so as not to cause more hairs to fall off, she murmured, "I am glad to see you again. I almost did not think I would be able to." Between helping her brother organize the transportation of food to the camp of Dol Amroth, watching Elfwine, and trying to find Elphir, she had scarcely had a free moment since her rude awakening by Cobryn. After returning to her chambers, only a few hours' sleep had been hers before her friend had determined it a most convenient point at which to rouse her.

A sigh escaped her. As much as she loved Cobryn, being shaken from a blissful state of sleep by means of his cane was not a perfect start to the day. The rest of the afternoon had, luckily, not required much energy: worn out from the previous night's festivities, Elfwine had wanted to do little more than nap in her arms. Even when she had attempted to locate Elphir, she had gotten no further than halfway down the main street before he had walked by her, deliberately ignoring her presence. That had pretty much ended all of her hopes for success, and right then and there she had decided to pay Heorot a long overdue visit.

With another sigh, Gúthwyn was about to start tending to her horse's mane when the door opened. Amrothos stepped inside the stables, his eyes wandering for a brief second until they fell on her and lit up.

"Gúthwyn," he said, grinning. "I thought I might find you here."

Éomund's daughter had always insisted to her people that they call her by her name, but to hear this prince using it was unsettling, especially when he should have adhered to the standards of propriety his household seemed to maintain.

"Y-You were looking for me, my lord?" she asked, giving a brief curtsy.

"Of course I was," Amrothos said, strolling over to the stall and leaning against it. Heorot made a noise of dissent, stamping his feet.

"Do not worry," Gúthwyn whispered to the stallion, though she herself was uneasy beneath Amrothos's unswerving gaze.

"Are you not going to inquire as to why you are the object of my attentions?"

"I am not an object," Gúthwyn instinctively snapped.

"My apologies," Amrothos replied smoothly, a faint smile tugging at his features. "That is not what I meant. Well? Shall you not ask?"

Gúthwyn flushed, irritated with herself for overreacting. She had been doing that far too often lately. "Why, then?"

He smirked. "I am in dire need of a riding partner. Those to whom I have applied are all busy. I should like to request your company."

"I-I am sorry," Gúthwyn answered, shaking her head. "I dare not. Heorot has aged of late, and I will not endanger him."

"Surely in the Riddermark you can find another steed who is better suited," Amrothos declared, eyeing Heorot critically. "It is a shame for so fine a lady to be using so—"

"I will not," Gúthwyn interrupted him, folding her arms across her chest, "insult Heorot by using another mount. That is not how we treat our horses in Rohan, though perhaps you do not have the same scruples in Dol Amroth."

The instant the words slipped from her mouth, her face paled. "I-I am so sorry," she breathed, clamping her hand over her lips in horror.

Amrothos laughed at her. "What a refreshing change from women who seek only to please," he remarked, causing her further mortification. "Do all the maidens here speak their mind thus?"

_Nay, I alone need to learn to curb my tongue,_ she thought, but was lacking the composure significant enough for a decent reply.

"Well, if I cannot sway you…"

Gúthwyn bit her lip, now wishing that she could have agreed simply to remedy her errors. Yet one glance at Heorot reminded her not to risk her horse's health, if it were only for the purpose of making amends with the enigmatic prince who had inexplicably taken it upon himself to be her companion.

"You cannot," she said. "Heorot is aging; I dare not chance it. However, I thank you for your offer."

He inclined his head in acceptance. "As you wish," he spoke.

Gúthwyn had finished caring for Heorot's mane at this point, and was by now feeling more than a little closed in. Bidding a quiet farewell to her horse, in addition to the promise of sugar cubes in the near future, she then said to Amrothos, "If you will excuse me—"

The prince stepped out of her way as she opened the stall door, but when she made to leave he suddenly exclaimed, "Wait!" and leaped forward, closing his hand about her small wrist. His strength was such that she was pulled into him, their bodies growing horrifyingly close. A surge of terror raced through her, and without even thinking Gúthwyn wrenched away.

"What do you want?" she demanded, stepping back from him.

His eyes were narrowed in confusion, and for a moment neither of them said anything. As her alarm gradually faded, it was replaced by a heightening sense of embarrassment. Why was she falling to pieces over so little a thing?

"Forgive me," she choked out bitterly, frustrated to the point where her throat was beginning to tighten. Had she not been fine just a few days ago? Now she was panicking at the slightest discomforts—or worse, snapping at someone for them. "I-I am not used to…"

Amrothos arched an eyebrow, and at last she gave up. "Forget it," she muttered. "What is it that you wished to say?"

"I just thought of a way for you to make this missed opportunity up to me," Amrothos announced, traces of his former grin restoring themselves on his face.

Now it was Gúthwyn's turn to be puzzled. "How?" she asked suspiciously.

"Sit beside me tonight, and in the meantime I shall think of something else suitable enough to assuage my disappointment," Amrothos bade her.

"Of course," Gúthwyn quickly said, suddenly eager to be gone from the stables. "I hope you find your ride satisfactory, my lord."

"I do not doubt I will," he replied, but she barely heard him as she swiftly retreated outside. Only when a cool breeze swept across her face did she let loose the breath she had not realized herself to be holding. _Sitting next to Amrothos!_ she thought in despair, wishing she had not agreed to his proposal. _Why could it not have been Éomer?_

_Oh, be quiet,_ she scolded herself an instant later. _Stop complaining._

Determined to maintain this resolve, she strode in the direction of the Golden Hall, taking deep breaths and reminding herself that she must endure Amrothos's company if she wanted to find out what was happening with Elphir. There was always the option of approaching Erchirion, but she had never talked to the third prince and was more than wary of doing so.

Lothíriel, of course, would no sooner help her than feed herself to a dragon, and Elphir had already demonstrated that he had no interest in speaking to her. That left Amrothos, but she could not help but wish that there was someone else to whom she might turn. It was not that the youngest prince was malignant towards her; quite the opposite, in fact. And that was what concerned her. She barely knew him, yet he was going out of his way to be with her.

It was not just that, either. He made her feel uncomfortable, constantly interrupting her and saying flirtatious remarks that were highly inappropriate considering the situation. That was likely in his nature—Elphir had alluded to it once or twice in the days of their friendship—but it did not make him any less difficult to tolerate. To top it off, he had already succeeded in touching her where she was most vulnerable. His hands had not slid to her stomach, yet the curve of her waist was bad enough. However, he had only done that because it was the standard position for that particular dance. All things considered, she really had no reason to be so edgy around him.

So why did a small voice in the back of her head warn against associating herself with him?


	84. Against Better Judgment

**A/N:** I'm so sorry this took so long! Somehow, my ten-chapter gap between the section I'm writing and the section I'm posting closed to nine chapters, so I had to write two chapters instead of my usual one. Then, I tried to update yesterday, and while my account said I had updated the site wasn't showing the update. Finally, my account deleted the update, so I'm trying again. Thank you to everyone for being so patient! I'm really sorry!

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighty-Four:  
NOTE:** I know absolutely nothing about horses (least of all how they die, though I unsuccessfully tried to research it), so please correct me if anything's amiss. The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eighty-Four**

The next week passed by quickly. After an initial day of rest, the court of Dol Amroth was treated to a succession of entertainments such as had never before been attempted at Meduseld. The resources of Éomer were far vaster than anyone had guessed. Musicians, tumblers, and bards regaled them night after night, pleasing even the finickiest of his guests. There were also daily jousts, the winners receiving small prizes that Lothíriel handed out.

Gúthwyn was enthralled by these, never failing to watch even the lowliest of competitors. Some of the skill was astonishing: Elfhelm, Erkenbrand, and Gamling were nigh impossible to beat. Round after round they defeated the Dol Amroth nobility, until at last Erchirion and Amrothos had to step up to the table. Only then was the playing field leveled, as while the Marshals and the Captain had superior equestrian skills, the princes were by no means inferior with the lance.

Despite his younger brothers' attempts to win glory for their people, Elphir did not come to their aid. Upon realizing that Gúthwyn enjoyed the jousts, he attended not a single one thereafter, and all but confined himself to his tent. Éomer grew increasingly angered by this, until it was all he could do not to strike the other man when in close proximity to him. For her part, Éomund's daughter gave up trying to speak to the prince. He plainly wanted nothing to do with her, and it was not in her power to demand an audience with him.

In the meantime, however, there was plenty for her to do and see. One of the more interesting things for her to observe was the court of Dol Amroth, regardless of how much she despised the ladies. In nearly a blink of the eye, they had established themselves at the top of the pecking order. Scores of young women flocked to their circles, eager to hear news of the latest fashions and accessories. Nor were they without admirers. Despite none of Lady Míriel's companions being caught alone with one of the soldiers, they were more than pleased enough to coyly encourage them.

Yet it was Lothíriel who was truly in her element. Gúthwyn had at first assumed Lady Míriel to be the leader of Dol Amroth society, but she was swiftly proven wrong. Even the vivacious woman had to step to the side when the queen arrived; indeed, she was soon forgotten as girls surrounded Imrahil's daughter, clamoring to hear her opinion on this gown or that man. All of their deference struck Gúthwyn as incredibly phony—and more than once, she was puzzled to see them glancing darkly at each other behind Lothíriel's back, only to smile dazzlingly at her when she faced them.

She was not about to point this out to the queen, however, especially since they were already on such rocky footing. Nor did she have much time to wonder about it. Amrothos continued to call on her, so that nearly every hour of the day she found herself in his presence. Although at first this was a hindrance, she eventually grew to hope that he would soon reveal to her what had happened with Elphir. She had brought the matter up on a couple of occasions, but he had always shaken his head and told her that he was still attempting to come into his brother's confidence.

Nevertheless, she gritted her teeth and endured his company, despite the fact that she was growing increasingly uncomfortable around him. His cocky, self-assured manners far overwhelmed her stumbling and hesitant demeanor. Whenever they danced together, the hands on her waist were as chains of dominance, keeping her within his reach at all times and far too close to him for her liking. Were it not for Elphir, she would have begun to make all possible excuses to avoid him.

However, she was the only one who seemed to be uneasy in the youngest prince's commanding presence. He was charming to everyone, a magnetic force that drew many admirers from the women of both lands. His confident personality was enough to attract attention but not enough to be considered arrogance. Not even Cobryn noticed anything amiss about him, although he did find it unusual that Éomund's daughter should be spending so much time with him.

All in all, Gúthwyn was relieved whenever she could glean a few spare hours. Éomer liked to have her with him while he was with his guests—she suspected that he did not want her to be practicing on the training grounds often. The first time she had fought beside the nobles from Dol Amroth, she had so appalled them that many had left within a few minutes of her arrival. Lady Míriel's husband, Lord Tulkadan, was among them. Since then, Éomer had gently discouraged her returning there, and in the place of such an activity see that their visitors were not wanting for diversion.

Unfortunately, this task required great attention on her part, the result being that she was hardly ever alone. This made it difficult to see Heorot—and as it grew alarmingly clear that her beloved horse was nearing the end of his days, she was forced to invent more excuses as to why she had to leave the others. She did not want it to be public knowledge that her stallion was suffering, for that might draw unnecessary attention to him.

Luckily, the stableboys were more than adept at watching Heorot in her absence. Gúthwyn was horrified to learn that Breca, the youngest, was coming to the stables while his mother lay sick with a fever, but he insisted on carrying out his duties. He and Eacbald kept her informed of Heorot's condition, alerting her when he spent large periods of time lying down, telling her if they discovered more patches on his coat, and finally bringing her the news that he had stopped eating. Gúthwyn at last abandoned her brother, returning to Meduseld only for meals. As soon as he became aware of the reason, Éomer pardoned her for this, and even went down with her sometimes.

"Sister," he said at one point, running his fingers gently over Heorot's almost-bare skin, "you should give thought to the inscription on his burial mound."

Outside the gates of Edoras and behind the city, there was a broad green field in which Riders traditionally laid their horses to rest. Gúthwyn had only been there once before, when Théodred had taken her to stifle her curiosity. She had wandered amongst the hills, at the age of five unable to read most of the words without stumbling. However, she had known even then the great reverence with which these animals were treated, and had restrained herself from touching any of the graves.

Now, almost twenty years later, she shook her head. "Not yet."

"He has perhaps a week," Éomer murmured, placing his hand on her shoulder and squeezing it. "If he stops drinking, less."

Heorot wheezed in response, causing a lump to form in Gúthwyn's throat.

"Not yet," she repeated.

Éomer sighed, but he was not annoyed with her. "Well—" he began, but at that moment the door to the stables swung open, followed by a familiar shout.

"Horse!"

"Éomer?" Lothíriel glanced around the stalls, her eyes finally resting on Heorot's. Elfwine attempted to squirm out of her arms, but she held him tight.

"What is it?" Éomer asked, getting to his feet.

"Papa!" Elfwine exclaimed at the sight of his father, reaching out to him. "Want papa!"

Lothíriel lifted her voice over her son's cries. "I was hoping to speak with you about tonight's feast, though if you are too busy—"

"Nay, I am not," Éomer replied, and bent down to pat Gúthwyn's back. "Take care, baby sister," he whispered. "Let me know if anything goes amiss."

Gúthwyn gave a small smile, and then watched as her brother left the stall, joining his wife. Lothíriel adjusted her grip on Elfwine so that he could not see Heorot—yet it later occurred to her that the queen did not want him to recognize his aunt—and narrowed her gaze slightly before turning around and departing with Éomer.

_There are more important things on my mind than our rivalry,_ Gúthwyn longed to say aloud to the now-empty stables, but held her tongue. Exhaling, she returned her attentions to Heorot.

She stayed there for the rest of the day, eating an apple and a slice of bread that she had brought for lunch. As usual, she offered a carrot to Heorot, but he did not accept it. After that, there was silence, each of them taking comfort from the other's presence. Only when darkness began descending upon them did she gather her things and return to the Golden Hall, sending a quick prayer up to the Valar for her horse's well being.

Her arrival at the Golden Hall was not a moment too soon. The feast was just about to begin, leaving her with just enough time to dash to her room and change into something suitable. Unfortunately, the guests at that point were filing in, and she received several cold glares from the women of Dol Amroth. They still had not grown accustomed to her dressing habits, and were wont to mock her for them. Not once had she been taunted to her face, but a horrified Mildwen had informed her that her "uncouth, heathenish" garments were constantly made fun of whenever she was not around.

Ignoring their condescension, Gúthwyn hastened to her chambers and stripped off her clothes. She could not help but shudder when she saw the scars adorning her back; they were still terrible to look at, scabbing and peeling in dry weather and an angry red after she washed. Her fists clenched as she stared at the child, wondering how she had never noticed that he was carving his symbol on her. Even Borogor had known about it…

_Stop!_ she screamed. _Stop thinking about him! He is dead!_

She wanted to collapse to the floor and give into the tears that had been building within her every since that fateful day, but she could not. She would not. It was her one saving grace, that in this she had not crumbled when in all else she had failed. Stiffening her resolve, she drew the folds of her dress over the scars, blocking them from her sight. There were no laces on this gown, something that cheered her immensely.

After donning appropriate footwear, she took a deep breath and walked away from the safety of her quarters, only to run right into Cobryn.

"There you are," he said, once they had straightened themselves out. His brow knitted with concern when he caught sight of her face. "Are you all right?"

There were no tears in her eyes, and she had thought that she had been concealing her emotions relatively well, but evidently she was wrong. "I am fine," she lied, smoothing out her hair. "Am I late?"

"Almost," Cobryn said, giving her a keen look. "Éomer sent me to get you."

"I was just getting changed," she informed him as they started on their way again. "I was in the stables until a few minutes ago."

Cobryn nodded, and then inquired, "How is Heorot?"

Gúthwyn shook her head miserably. "He is not eating."

"Do you see now how we worry whenever you do the same?" Cobryn asked sternly, pinning her with a sharp gaze.

"I _have_ been eating," Gúthwyn protested. "Ever since—"

They entered the hall just then, and she clamped her lips shut so that she did not speak ill of Elphir in the vicinity of his subjects. Cobryn glanced at her, knowing fully well what he had been about to say.

"Sister, I was afraid you had decided not to come," Éomer said as she approached the high table.

"Fear not, brother, I am here," was Gúthwyn's response. Her face turned a faint shade of pink when she saw that Elphir's eyes were determinedly fixed on his plate.

"Allow me," a smooth voice said then, and she started to see that Amrothos had risen to his feet and was holding out her chair. She stiffened when she realized that she had been placed directly across from Legolas. Lady Míriel, unfortunately, was to sit next to her, but Gúthwyn knew they would not speak a word to each other unless forced to.

"Thank you," she nevertheless murmured, lowering herself into the seat. It was not until after she had been pushed in that she realized she was holding her breath.

Servants began winding around the tables and setting out heaps of dishes, most of which she could not even name. There was a great amount of meat on the table, as Legolas and the Elves had been hunting regularly to ensure that the food supply was not drained. The smells mixed into an unpleasant odor that caused her stomach to churn; she tried inhaling through her mouth, but she thought she could almost taste the aroma.

Needing something to keep herself occupied, she quickly took her napkin from the table and began fiddling with it. Amrothos observed this. As the others were ladling food onto their plates, he leaned over and murmured, "And what might have you so excited?"

She jumped. "Sorry," she whispered as Legolas's gaze shifted onto her. "I-It is nothing. I am just…"

_Nauseated,_ she longed to say, but instead she bit her lip and fibbed, "I am anticipating the dancing."

"Not the tournament?" Amrothos inquired, seeming surprised.

"The tournament?" Gúthwyn echoed blankly.

"Did no one tell you?" Amrothos asked, raising an eyebrow. "Éomer announced just before the feast that we were to have one a week from today. Have you not noticed the amount of chatter?"

Blinking, Gúthwyn looked around and discovered that he was, in fact, right. The maids were gossiping louder than usual, their faces flushed with excitement. Lady Míriel and her friends were discussing the latest ribbons, but when she listened closer she realized that they were debating the best methods to distribute them to their champions. _They have champions?_ she marveled the next instant. _Is that not breaking some standard of propriety?_

She did not dwell on this long, however. Turning swiftly back to Amrothos, she asked, "Was this a surprise?" Éomer had told her nothing of a tournament—and she knew she had not been that idle in assisting the preparations.

Amrothos nodded. "Yet what is a visit between friends without competition?"

Gúthwyn felt a thrill of excitement race through her. She had never seen a proper tournament before. "Are they allowed to use weapons other than their swords?"

Chuckling at her enthusiasm, Amrothos replied, "No, but there is more to a tournament than a contest of swordsmanship. There shall be archery, as well, in addition to various events on horses that your people will no doubt win."

"Can anyone participate?" she pressed him eagerly.

Amrothos considered for a moment. "Lord Éomer," he called at length, causing Gúthwyn to cringe, "your sister desires to know whether anyone might join next week's tournament."

Éomer's head swiveled in her direction. "Any _man_ may compete," he was quick to say, shooting her a warning look. Beside him, Legolas's chuckle turned quickly into a cough. Gúthwyn glared at him, momentarily forgetting her position.

"Gúthwyn, you must sit with me," Lothíriel implored her, turning a most convincing smile in her direction. "This is your first tournament, is it not?"

Not understanding where the queen was heading with this—and more than a little wary—Gúthwyn nodded. "Yes, it is."

"Then I will not take no for an answer," Lothíriel said. "There are many customs that you need to learn, especially since you have a champion!"

"And who might this be?" Elphir asked Gúthwyn before she had a chance to inquire as to what said customs were, the first time he had initiated conversation between them since their arrival. His eyes were narrowed in distaste.

Flushing, Éomund's daughter began, "His name is—"

"His name is Tun," Éomer interjected sharply, "and he is a man who upholds both his principles and his word. I would have no one else representing my sister."

Elphir's scowl deepened, but against Éomer he did not dare say anything more. Gúthwyn was shocked, for she had rarely heard her brother say a kind thing about Tun. Even though he now leaped to her champion's defense because he loathed the person attacking him, she could not help but feel immensely gratified.

"I do not know if he is my champion anymore," she nevertheless confessed, her hidden smile fading, "for while I wish it were so, he has a wife, and I am not sure if—"

"And you think it appropriate, to give your favor to the husband of another woman?"

The retort hit Gúthwyn like a slap in the face. Even Elphir seemed surprised at the words he had just uttered. Imrahil recovered long enough to grab his son's arm and hiss, "Do _not_ disgrace me with your insolence! Apologize to her, immediately!"

"No," Éomer snarled, raising his hand and stabbing a finger shaking with fury in the direction of the door. "Get out."

Gúthwyn was frozen in place, horrified by this turn of events. Legolas was struggling to conceal his shock, but Lady Míriel and Lord Tulkadan had no such tact and were openly gaping at the scene unfolding before them.

"Éomer," she at last whispered, coming to her senses, "please, that is not necessary…"

"Get out," Éomer repeated harshly to Elphir, who had not moved an inch. "Now!"

Without another word, Elphir pushed back his chair and strode away from the table. Over the feasting and reveling of the people, his departure was noticed by the entire delegation of Dol Amroth, many of whose heads turned at the sight of their prince storming out of the hall. Just as quickly, they zeroed in on Gúthwyn, who cringed in mortification at the attention.

To top things off, Elfwine began crying then, curling his hands into fists and wailing so much that even the more raucous diners could hear him. Lothíriel leaped to her feet, obviously not wanting to create even more of a scene than had already been displayed. "I will take him outside," she said, reaching for a piece of bread and a napkin. "All of the visitors have excited him."

Elfwine screamed at her shoulder in response, and was quickly whisked away. An awkward silence was left in his wake.

"I should go," Gúthwyn muttered, her cheeks turning red as she pushed her chair back. "I have caused enough—"

"None of this was your fault," Éomer interrupted her, holding a hand out to stop her. "Stay with us."

Gúthwyn hesitated for a moment before lowering herself back down into the seat, still ridiculously conscious of Lady Míriel's shrewd gaze.

"Come, Legolas," Prince Imrahil said then, mercifully steering the focus away from Gúthwyn, "tell us about your colony. I am afraid I have not gotten a chance to hear much of its affairs."

Legolas was all too happy to oblige, just as eager to move on. "It is doing very well," he said. "My father is planning a visit…"

Gúthwyn began tuning him out, fully aware that it was rude for her to do so but her mind more occupied with Elphir. Had he, too, finally succumbed to the views of his society? He had always tolerated her quirks, finding them a relief to the strained and uptight circles in which he lived. But now he denounced them, declaring her actions improper and ill-suited for someone of her ranking. The fact that he had chosen Tun as the subject of his criticisms only made the remarks worse.

Sighing, she glanced across the hall to where she thought her champion might be seated. Until now, it had never occurred to her that thus far he had not yet competed wearing her favor. His status had been nominal, but soon he would get the chance to earn it. Not that he needed to, in her eyes—even if he lost all that he entered, she would not have anyone replace him for the world.

But would he want to represent her? She, the woman he had courted for years with everyone else aware of it but her, instead of his wife? What would Brithwen think? Was it, as Elphir said, not suitable for someone of her status to be giving her favor to a married man? What _was_ a favor, anyway? Those ribbons that Lady Míriel was talking about?

"You seem preoccupied, sister."

Éomer's concerned voice broke in on her thoughts, and she jumped a little before saying quickly, "I am fine."

"Are you sure?"

Now under the scrutiny of almost everyone at the table, Gúthwyn blushed as she replied, "Yes, I am."

He let the matter rest until gradually the others had subsided into conversation once more; then he leaned over and muttered, "You have not been eating."

Gúthwyn glanced down at her plate and saw that he was right. "Sorry," she apologized, avoiding Amrothos's questioning look as she reached for the bread. "I forgot."

Éomer scrutinized her for another moment, obviously unsure of whether she was lying or not. In order to allay his suspicions, she took a large bite, though she regretted it an instant later when aromas from a nearby platter of fish wafted under her nose. She was not accustomed to having seafood at the dinner table, and did not find it at all to her liking.

"Just bread?" Amrothos asked once Éomer had turned to Prince Imrahil. "Is that all you eat?"

"No," Gúthwyn said somewhat defensively. "I have soup."

"No black pudding?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Amrothos grinned. "A personal favorite," he said with a wink. "You should try it."

"Perhaps I will," Gúthwyn responded vaguely, not having the faintest idea what black pudding was. Knowing Dol Amroth, it probably had something to do with fish, and thus she had every reason to stay away from it.

"Then again," Amrothos consented, his voice lowering, "if you get your lovely figure by refusing to have decent food, by all means continue to do so."

Gúthwyn stiffened. "_What_ did you just say?" she wanted to demand, but the words stuck in her throat and she could barely breathe, let alone speak. Amrothos seemed completely unaware of how offensive his comment was and cut himself a piece of meat from his full plate. When he stuck it into his mouth, the sight so repelled her that she had to look away. She wanted to throw up.

Instead, she took several deep breaths just like Cobryn had told her. _Relax,_ she instructed herself. _Amrothos is trying to compliment you. He is failing miserably, but he is attempting nevertheless—probably to put you at ease after what Elphir did! It is your own paranoia that is twisting his intentions. Stop doubting him! In a few weeks, he shall be returning to the Sea and you will not have to deal with his insolent court. In the meantime, do your duty and for Eru's sake do it with a smile on your face!_

Despite her mind's stern warning, her body refused to comply. Her hands were still shaking when she surreptitiously glanced at the youngest prince, who appeared totally unconcerned and was still enjoying whatever foul carcass he called his meal. She felt nauseous again.

"My lady?"

Gúthwyn leaped to her feet, bumping painfully into the table edge and nearly stumbling backwards. A hand steadied her by the waist, causing her to suck her stomach in and hold her breath. She saw one of the rings Amrothos had been wearing.

"Gúthwyn?" the voice tried again, and this time she looked around, pushing the prince's fingers away from her. His touch was quickly forgotten.

"Breca?" she asked, recognizing the stableboy with a surge of worry. "What has happened?"

Breca shifted on his feet, unable to meet her eyes. "My lady, you should come down. Heorot is not… he is not well at all."

Something tightened in Gúthwyn's chest, and as if in a daze she turned to Éomer. He was still talking to Imrahil, but when she swallowed and called out his name he glanced up at her.

"Brother," she began, at a loss for what to say, "I—"

Éomer's brow furrowed, until at last he caught sight of Breca. Immediately, he nodded in understanding. "You may go."

Nodding her thanks, ignoring the puzzled looks she was receiving from the others at the table, Gúthwyn went over to Breca.

"He will not have any water, my lady," Breca informed her as they hastened away from the feast. "He cannot get up, though Eacbald and I have tried. And his breathing is not right."

Gúthwyn's heart was clenching with each word he spoke. "How much time do you think he has?" she managed as they went through the doors, Breca kindly holding one open for her.

"Not very long," Breca replied, shaking his head. "That is why I came to get you."

They did not exchange any words thereafter. Gúthwyn's pace grew so fast that poor Breca had to jog to keep up with her, but she soon forgot about him when they came into the stables. She could almost smell death. The other horses sensed it, too; they were stamping their hooves and shuffling nervously, now and then whickering uneasily. Gúthwyn did not pay them any heed, and was barely able to acknowledge Eacbald's bow.

Rushing over to Heorot's stall and opening the door, her heart stopped to see her once mighty stallion lying on the ground, his eyes glazed and his chest rising and falling unevenly. Gúthwyn knelt beside him, resting a gentle hand on his neck. "Hello, my friend," she murmured, making sure that he could see her.

He stirred, making a low keening noise before lowering his head back down. Gúthwyn began stroking his mane, hoping to lessen his suffering—even if it was just a tiny bit. Eacbald and Breca stood awkwardly to the side, both doing their best not to look but failing miserably. She did not grudge them this, finding it all too easy to forget that they were there. Heorot's breathing had slowed, yet his eyes were still fixed on her.

"It will be all right," Gúthwyn whispered, making a valiant effort to smile. "You will be in a better place."

It was a common belief among the Rohirrim that the souls of deceased horses were welcomed into a vast plain, greater than anything even in the Mark, where long, green grass was in abundance and they were free to roam wherever they desired. Some maintained that it was Béma (known to others as Oromë, the Huntsman of the Valar) who tended to them when they were separated from their masters, for it was he who had first brought horses to Middle-earth.

Yet even the knowledge that such a fate awaited Heorot did not comfort her overmuch. Not now, when all she could do to help her stallion was to be with him on his deathbed. Luckily, it did not seem as if his passing would be drawn out: already his eyes were closing, his breaths coming shorter and with longer pauses in between. The lump in Gúthwyn's throat grew harder as Heorot grew stiffer, his movements slowing until finally there were none at all.

She struggled not to cry when her beloved horse at last gave up his life. Eacbald handed her a blanket and she tenderly covered Heorot with it, bending to kiss the tip of his ear before she drew the cloth over his head. When he lay beneath it, she sank back down on her heels and rested her face in her palms, trying to breathe deeply and not show any weakness in front of the stableboys.

All too soon, Breca's hesitant voice broke the silence. "W-Would you like us to wait until tomorrow to bury him, my lady?"

Gúthwyn nodded, lowering her hands and staring at the horse she had ridden since her childhood days. Soon, she would have to begin the search for a new one—none of the Rohirrim could last long without a mount. But for tonight, she did not want to have to think of what lay ahead.

"We will be standing outside," Eacbald said tactfully. "Let us know if you need help with anything."

Gúthwyn's shoulders shook after they had departed, but angrily she rubbed her eyes and settled back against the wall of the stall. Drawing her knees to her chest, she rested her chin on them and thought back to the time Théodred had taught her how to ride a horse. He had sat her in front of him on Brego, his large hands closed over hers upon the reins, and instructed her in all the proper commands. While Théoden had wanted to have her learn at a more gradual pace, his son had taken her on her first canter and then gallop within a week.

For a terrifying moment, the impending tears threatened to become sobs, and she had to force herself to stop thinking about her cousin. Such an action proved to be necessary within seconds, as the door to the stables swung open and she soon heard the treading of light boots upon the ground.

Curious despite her situation, for Breca and Eacbald had promised to remain outside until she was done, Gúthwyn raised herself up slightly so that she might see over the stall. It was futile. They were too far away for her to be able to glimpse without standing, and since her appearance was likely disheveled at the least and almost certainly teary-eyed, that was not an option. Instead she held her breath, trying to be as quiet as possible so that she could avoid any questions.

Luck was not on her side. She had just exhaled when a familiar voice above her said, "I am sorry for your loss."

An inexplicable shiver ran down her spine as she looked up at Amrothos, wondering why on Middle-earth he had followed her here.

"Th-Thank you," she murmured. "D-Does Éomer wish me to return to the feast?"

She prayed her brother would not impose such a duty on her at this time. The last thing she wanted to do was to go back to a hall full of catty Dol Amroth women, all ready to pounce upon her for the slightest misstep.

"Nay, he does not," Amrothos replied, and she sighed in relief. "He merely wanted someone to keep you company, and since I had finished with my food I volunteered."

That sounded just like Éomer: protective to a fault, but really only desiring the best for her.

In an unusual display of consideration for her feelings, Amrothos questioned, "Do you mind if I come inside?"

Gúthwyn hesitated for a moment, and then shook her head. It would have been rather awkward for him to stand outside the door, even though she was not particularly keen on letting him near her.

"How old was he?" Amrothos inquired as he stepped into the stall, closing the gate behind him. He sat down next to her, a little too close for comfort.

Shifting uneasily, Gúthwyn answered, "Thirty-one. He led a long life… and yet—"

She stopped, having about to say "I missed over seven years of it." But she did not want to bring back memories of her slavery, nor was Amrothos the person to confide in.

"Yet what?" the prince pressed her, once she showed no sign of continuing.

"Nothing," Gúthwyn responded with a sigh. Her eyes darted to Amrothos's legs; they were too close to hers, and she inched away, trying to tell herself that it was propriety that made her act thusly and not her fears. If he noticed her movements, he did not comment. For a long time, neither of them said anything.

"I am sorry for, ah… Elphir's remarks at dinner," Amrothos spoke at length, glancing over at her. She was slightly unnerved to realize that their faces were only a foot apart.

"It was not… Do not trouble yourself," Gúthwyn said, though her shoulders slumped at the mention of the man who had once wanted to marry her, but would now sooner kill himself.

"Yet I would apologize for him," Amrothos told her. His next words were less seriously spoken. "It grieves my heart to see such a pretty woman in distress."

His flirtatious manner had returned. Gúthwyn cringed, saying, "Amrothos…"

"What?" he asked, his dark eyes holding hers.

_Please, stop!_ Gúthwyn wanted to tell him, but she lost the courage even before she opened her mouth. "Never mind," she finished instead, her shoulders slumping with cowardice.

They were silent again, until Amrothos eventually offered, "If you wish, I can try to help you back into his good graces."

Gúthwyn straightened, her eyes narrowing. "Elphir's?" she asked, both surprised and suspicious at the same time. What exactly did he mean?

"Yes, Elphir's," Amrothos confirmed impatiently. "That is who you desire, is it not?"

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Gúthwyn's heart argued strenuously against saying yes… and yet she could not say no. "Yes," she finally muttered, her cheeks flaming. To cover her injured pride, she immediately fired back: "Why would I need your help?"

Amrothos snorted. "You have not exactly been doing a stellar job on your own. I see no point in denying that I always thought you were the best choice for my brother. He is too serious sometimes, and I daresay you would be giving him a much-needed lesson in… ah, _loosening_ up."

Gúthwyn did not understand why he placed an emphasis on the last words, but she could not help but find his proposition intriguing.

"Why?" she asked suspiciously, folding her arms across her stomach. "What do you get out of this?"

"Should you make amends with Elphir, I will be able to share my household with a civilized human being, as opposed to the brooding, sulking creature he has become over the past couple of months," Amrothos said, rolling his eyes. "It is almost unbearable. No one can get anything done."

Gúthwyn frowned. Elphir had never been given to such tempers when she had known him… _You _thought _you knew him,_ she corrected herself. _Would that man have ignored you as he is doing now? Would he have refused to speak to you, save to condemn you for a lack of propriety that he so easily tolerated when last you met?_

"That is it?" she could not help but press Amrothos. "That is all you stand to gain? If that is truly all you care about, why can you not just find him another woman?"

"Fair enough," Amrothos admitted. "I confess that his happiness is not the only reason I have. Lately, my father has been hinting that I should find myself a decent wife."

The remark was accompanied by a grimace; plainly, he had better things to do than make his name less infamous amongst the people of Dol Amroth. Gúthwyn colored, having heard all of the rumors concerning his exploits in the seaside taverns. Elphir had described his reputation as "notorious at best, downright deplorable at worst," adding that Imrahil had long ago given up trying to keep him from spending his money on the pretty maidens he encountered during raucous nights. Gúthwyn did not like to think of what services he paid for.

"Thus," Amrothos finished, causing her to start, "I have every reason to attempt arranging his marriage with you, as I am hoping that it will please my father enough to forget about me."

Such was Amrothos's character that Gúthwyn's doubts were allayed to discover that he had ulterior motives. Despite the fact that she had no intention of letting reconciliation go so far as a wedding, the prince beside her did not have to know that. She would use whatever advice he offered her in order to get to the point where she could converse with Elphir, and then she would let the matter go. Amrothos could fend for himself.

"Fine," she said at last, taking a deep breath. "What must I do?"


	85. The Dress

**A/N:** I am officially done with school! This means that I should be updating more regularly now, yay!

Just thought I'd point that out.

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighty-Five:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eighty-Five**

"How was the burial, my lady?"

Gúthwyn sobered at Elflede's question, shrugging out of her dark gown and thinking back to the events of the afternoon. She had walked with Breca, Eacbald, and some of the other stableboys around the outskirts of the city until they had come to the horses' mounds. While she made the final preparations for Heorot's body, the others had dug out a large hole in which to place him. Éomer would have been at her side, had Lothíriel not asked him to watch Elfwine while she entertained her friends.

"It was fine," she said, taking the robe that had been draped across the privacy screen and wrapping it around herself. "I-It did not take very long."

"Are you going to find a new horse soon?" Elflede inquired, somehow managing not to make the question seem like an insult to Heorot. "Several of the colts are maturing—"

"I have not given it any thought," Gúthwyn confessed. "I suppose I will have to see to the matter, but for now I have no desire to. There is no time, anyway, if we are to attend this formal ball Éomer is planning."

She uttered the words in distaste, for she knew exactly what those events entailed. They meant having to don a constricting gown, sit in a straight-backed chair and maintain as perfect a composure as was humanly possible. She would have to listen to endless, dull chatter without promise of relief from dancing: the musicians setting up their places now were those from Dol Amroth, and thus she could safely say it would be in her best interests to remain in her seat.

As she stepped out from behind the screen, Elflede asked, "What dress shall you wear?"

Gúthwyn shook her head. "Amrothos is bringing mine over," she announced, unable to keep her cheeks from turning pink.

Elflede's eyes widened in surprise. "What?"

"Lothíriel is lending me one of her outfits," Gúthwyn muttered. "He promised to deliver it, since the queen is busy with her own preparations."

She did not tell the maid that this arrangement was part of Amrothos's plan to get her back into Elphir's arms—though she certainly would not let his schemes succeed that much. Amrothos had promised to find a gown that would draw his brother's attention, and after pronouncing none of hers satisfactory he had gone to Lothíriel in hopes of finding a better one. Gúthwyn prayed that he had given a conceivable excuse, for she did not want the queen to discover what she was trying to do.

"My lady," Elflede said hesitantly, "if one of the other servants sees him coming to your quarters, there will be gossip."

"Is there not already enough?" Gúthwyn asked wearily. "Well, I suppose Éomer would thank me for entertaining his guests, if he knew that I was a laughingstock amongst them."

"I wish I could say otherwise," Elflede remarked apologetically, "but even their servants make fun of you. They do not like it that you train with the men, nor that you have children."

_And what,_ she wanted to demand, _have I ever done to them?_

"So long as they are cowards and dare not speak these things in front of me," she commented instead, "I doubt much trouble can come out of it."

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. "Who is it?" Gúthwyn called, tightening her robe around her.

"It is I, Amrothos."

Gúthwyn hastened to open the door, eager to see what he had picked out. Knowing Elphir, it would likely be something tasteful, something that flattered her figure—not that she really had one.

"It was the best I could find," Amrothos said when she saw him, drawing from behind his back a folded dress. It was white.

Gúthwyn froze.

"What?" Amrothos asked. "You have not even looked at it yet."

Hardly able to believe that he had managed to pick this loathsome color out of all others, Gúthwyn extended a shaking hand to take it. Her stomach knotting in trepidation, she held it up, allowing the fabric to unfurl.

"I cannot wear this," was the first thing she said.

Elflede's shocked silence only stiffened her resolve. At first glance, the garment seemed plain, not even adorned by beading or embroidery, but the neckline plunged so low that it was almost not decent for public attire.

"Nonsense," Amrothos replied, taking the gown from her and matching its shoulders to her own. Gúthwyn flinched, wanting to move away, yet his hands were gripping her too tightly. "What is wrong with it?" he inquired, his eyes flickering over her as he examined the way it looked.

Gúthwyn finally extracted herself from his touch, knowing that she was being paranoid but unable to stop cringing at such contact. "This," she answered, pointing to the offending area. "It is not proper."

"And since when has propriety been a great concern of yours?" Amrothos retorted, a strange look in his gaze.

She took a sharp breath, as did Elflede. "Explain yourself," Éomund's daughter said coldly, folding her arms across her stomach.

Amrothos rolled his eyes. "Sparring with men is hardly a conventional thing for a woman to do. Or have things changed without my realizing it?"

Gúthwyn flushed, knowing that he had a point. As usual, she had been overreacting.

"Are there any more objections?" Amrothos questioned, lifting an eyebrow.

"Well—"

"Yes?"

Valiantly, she cast around for an excuse not to wear it. "Will your family not realize that it is Lothíriel's?"

Amrothos shrugged. "It was a gift from a suitor. She never wore it, mostly because the man was so odious. He ate enough to feed an entire army for a week during his stay, and it certainly showed in his appearance."

"Yet… will they not remember it?"

Amrothos snorted. "They never saw it. Her suitor had the gall to corner her on one of their walks and all but force it into her hands. She refused to wear it and managed to secure his departure from Dol Amroth the very next day. It was an excellent bit of maneuvering on her part, if I do say so myself. Now, however, I think she puts it to better use."

Gúthwyn knitted her brow at this enigmatic statement.

"Must we discuss this matter any longer?" Amrothos asked, seeing that she was about to speak again.

Her cheeks colored. "No," she whispered.

"Good." With that, the youngest prince gave her back the gown. "Do try and keep it clean, for I promised to return it to my sister in somewhat decent condition."

"It is a formal ball," Gúthwyn muttered, reluctantly accepting it. "Nor am I that clumsy."

"Then do not sneak off from the festivities," Amrothos bade her with one of his infuriating winks, "for you might soil it."

"My lord, I must ask you to leave," Elflede interjected then, her voice unusually sharp. "My lady needs to get changed."

Gúthwyn's hands were clenched into fists as Amrothos acquiesced, yet it was not until after he had gone that she noticed.

"I do not like that man," Elflede hissed, glaring at the gown. "How dare he imply that you—that you—"

"That I what?" Gúthwyn asked, confused. Although she had been ill at ease with the prince's tone, she had not been able to detect anything off about the actual comment. After all, if she went outside, there was a greater chance of her staining the fabric.

"My lady," Elflede said exasperatedly, "why would you leave a party?"

Gúthwyn had a feeling that she was giving the wrong answer, but she went ahead and responded anyway. "Because I am tired, or if I need fresh air—"

"Did you not see his expression?" Elflede cried as her lady went behind the privacy screen. "He was suggesting that you would depart with another!"

It took several seconds for the meaning of Elflede's exclamation to sink in, yet when they did Gúthwyn paled, clutching the gown so hard that her entire body began shaking. _Is that what he really meant?_ she wondered, horror-struck. _Does he think I am capable of such a thing?_

"It has been said that he will have lecherous thoughts about anyone with a pulse," Elflede fumed, "but I did not think he would dare voice them around you… do you suppose Prince Imrahil never disciplined him?"

Gúthwyn's head was swimming; she took several deep breaths, trying to comfort herself with Elflede's words. _Anyone with a pulse,_ the maid had said; Amrothos was not behaving any differently around her than he would in the company of another person. It was the women of Dol Amroth who thought her a whore, not the men.

"My lady?"

Elflede's tentative voice broke in on her musings, causing her to look up—then she remembered that she was concealed by the privacy screen, and unable to see the maid. "S-Sorry," she said, hastily taking off her robe. "I am putting it on."

And don it she did, before she could lose the nerve. The fabric was strange: it was silky, cool to the touch and smelling of lavender and something else. Gúthwyn sniffed it for a moment, trying to place the fragrance, but at length she gave up and pushed her arms into the sleeves. They were soft, caressing her pale, bare skin and clinging to her limbs.

_Maybe it will not be so bad,_ she thought, adjusting the dress. _It is comfortable, at the least._

Praying that this would be the case, Gúthwyn paused her movements and steeled herself to look downwards. She let out a soft cry of dismay. A shocking amount of her upper torso was bare; her breasts were barely concealed, and she discovered that when she leaned forward one could see all the way through to her stomach. It was so distasteful, so hideous, that she nearly vomited to think that Elphir could possibly enjoy seeing a woman wearing it. The only saving grace of the situation was that the material was not transparent—but it was flimsy enough to make her mortifyingly self-conscious.

"Does it fit?" Elflede asked, her voice sounding far away. Gúthwyn could only stare at herself as the maid continued fretting. "You are going to be late if we do not hurry, and King Éomer will not be happy…"

"Elflede, I cannot do this," Gúthwyn choked out, finally managing to walk around the privacy screen. All of the maid's protests died on her lips when she saw Éomund's daughter. Her eyes widened in astonishment.

"Oh, my lady," she breathed at last, horror-struck. "The color suits you well, but the neckline—I do not know if it is proper—surely the men will stare—yet there is not enough time, and most of your other gowns need to be washed—"

Just then, there was a sharp knocking on the door. Retreating away from it, Gúthwyn wrapped her arms around herself, humiliated. What had Amrothos been thinking?

"Who is it?" Elflede called, when words failed the king's sister.

"It is Amrothos," the accursed voice announced impatiently, and without further preamble the door opened. Gúthwyn felt her jaw drop at such a blatant lack of regard for her privacy.

"I never said you could—"

"There, see?" Amrothos asked, his gaze sweeping over her entire body. Although he was observing the fit of the dress, Gúthwyn could not help but imagine that his eyes were picturing her without the garments.

_Stop being so paranoid!_ she ordered herself.

Desperate to maintain some control over the situation, she lifted her chin and asked, "Shall we go?"

* * *

"Perhaps I should send someone to get her," Éomer muttered to his wife, casting another glance in the direction of Gúthwyn's chambers. All of the guests had been seated, the sole exception being his sister and Amrothos. Éomer was not terribly concerned about the youngest prince's whereabouts, but it was not like Gúthwyn to keep him waiting. 

Lothíriel shook her head, adjusting her hold on Elfwine and bending down to kiss his brow. Having recently graduated to sitting in their laps while at the table, their son was unmistakably triumphant about his success and was intent on imperiously surveying the scene before him. Above him, his mother explained, "I told my brother to give her a dress she is borrowing from me. She should be out soon."

"Amrothos?" Éomer asked, surprised. "Is he—"

"Waiting out in the hall, I expect," Lothíriel replied with a smile. "I would have brought it to her myself, yet I was busy getting ready."

For a moment, Éomer briefly admired the result of his wife's preparations. Unlike most of the Dol Amroth women, who wore their hair up in buns so severe that not a single strand was astray, Lothíriel's locks tumbled past her shoulders, sorely tempting him to reach out and touch them. Such behavior, unfortunately, was not condoned by his visitors. To tease him further, she was wearing breathtaking blue gown, one that he had removed from her many a time. He was hoping that tonight would be no exception.

He spent several seconds lost in his musings, wondering how he could have been blessed with a such a wonderful spouse, but all too soon he remembered Gúthwyn. "Why are you lending her a dress?" he steeled himself to inquire, hoping that Imrahil had not detected his less than proper thoughts concerning his daughter from where he sat across from them.

"I believe most of hers are to be washed tomorrow," Lothíriel said. "She may not have had a suitable one for the occasion."

Éomer frowned. "Are you sure sending Amrothos to her was a good idea?" he asked quietly. He knew all too well of the man's reputation. Lothíriel herself had told him that he was prone to spend his nights at taverns, shamelessly occupying himself with female consorts. His exploits were the subject of many a wearied rant on Prince Imrahil's part, who lamented the fact that his son was so unscrupulous. Although Amrothos had never been anything but courteous to him, Éomer was not entirely sure he wanted such a man to be alone with Gúthwyn.

As he had often been of late.

"Come again?" Lothíriel asked then, busy trying to keep Elfwine quiet. Having examined his surroundings and decided them dull, the child had started to squirm, clearly searching for entertainment.

"Sending him to my sister's chambers," Éomer muttered, intent on keeping any hint of this conversation from Imrahil's ears. "The servants will gossip if they see them together."

That was not the only source of his uneasiness. He had marked that Amrothos and Gúthwyn were now frequently in each other's company. His sister did not seem to think it unusual, and certainly did not pay more attention to him than she would any of their other guests, but he was wary of the way Amrothos treated her. Despite having rarely conversed with her before, now the prince actively sought her out and appeared to be showing her more favor than any of the women with whom he occasionally flirted.

"My brother may not be the most honorable person in this city," Lothíriel answered, her voice equally low, "but he knows better than to conduct himself poorly in your sister's presence."

For once, his wife's words did not soothe him. Gúthwyn was so naïve and trusting sometimes that it would not be very difficult for Amrothos to get the wrong idea. She also did not like to refuse anyone, as he had observed whenever they argued. If Éomund's son so much as raised his voice around her, she became visibly upset, and unless she was absolutely furious with him about something she tended to back down. He would never take advantage of this character trait, but her passiveness occasionally worried him. What would happen when she encountered someone who had no qualms exploiting her submissive nature?

An image of Amrothos flashed across his mind. Éomer mentally shook his head, trying to tell himself that he was reading too much into the situation. It was quite possible that the prince felt bad for his sister's rejection at Elphir's hands, and was attempting to put her at ease. But did he have to go about it in such an obvious manner? Gúthwyn knew next to nothing about propriety, and was probably completely oblivious to his preference, but surely Amrothos was more aware of his actions.

"Oh, there she is." Lothíriel's voice broke in on this thoughts, causing him to look up. "You worry too much, husband."

Éomer's eyes focused on the distant corridor from which Gúthwyn and Amrothos were emerging. Since at this point everyone had been waiting for a couple of minutes, the gazes of the entire Dol Amroth court swung in their direction, as well as those of the higher-ranked Riders Éomer had invited to dine with them. The King of Rohan smiled to see that his sister was wearing white, but then felt himself stiffen in horror as he realized just what she had donned.

"You gave her _that _dress?" he whispered to Lothíriel. As Gúthwyn drew closer, scandalized whispers broke out amongst the women of Dol Amroth.

"It was the only one I had that would fit her," Lothíriel apologized, her cheeks tinged a faint pink. "You know she is smaller than me."

It was all Éomer could do to keep from leaping to his feet and dragging Gúthwyn away to have her changed into something else. The neckline of the gown was so low that it was nearly indecent. On a person who had almost no breasts to speak of, it looked even more out of place. Several of the men were gaping at her, those from Dol Amroth appalled at the display and those from Rohan more astounded than anything. Elphir's face was white, his body rigid. Even Lothíriel had to bite her lip in embarrassment.

The spectacle only became worse as Gúthwyn reached the table. His poor baby sister—she was bright red with humiliation, having noticed all too quickly the less than approving glances she was receiving. Amrothos remained unconcernedly at her side, pulling out her chair for her with a low bow. He, after all, was not the one whom everyone in the throne room was staring at. Éomer felt his stomach clench as Gúthwyn lowered herself into the seat next to Imrahil.

"Hello, brother," she said, her voice hardly rising above a whisper. When Amrothos pushed her chair in, she went to adjust herself, the result being that she leaned forward. For an awful second, Éomer could see all the way down her dress. Beside him, Legolas shifted uncomfortably.

"Hello, sister," Éomer at last managed, trying his best to keep his tone level. "How has your day been?"

Belatedly, he recalled that she had buried Heorot, who last night had given up his life and passed beyond the circles of the world. He berated himself for his insensitivity as Gúthwyn's eyes darkened, but she calmly replied, "Fine, as usual."

Éomer barely heard her. The flimsy dress upon her shoulders was too much of a distraction. He could not believe Lothíriel had let Gúthwyn borrow it. While he understood that there were no other options, he would rather have seen her in one of her grey gowns than what she was now garbed in. It was far too revealing for her, and he was certain that his men would not be able to keep themselves from eyeing her chest. The knowledge made him clench his fists, but he was all too aware that she had brought this upon herself.

To make matters even worse, the sheer fabric was something Lothíriel donned as a nightgown on occasions when they had no intention of going to sleep. To see his wife so scantily clad aroused him so much that he could often manage only a few minutes of foreplay before he had to tear it off of her. He had soiled the dress his sister was now wearing on countless occasions. If Gúthwyn had any idea of its history, she would have been absolutely mortified.

"Éomer."

Lothíriel's voice startled him; he straightened, asking, "What?"

"The guests are waiting for you to make a speech," she murmured, giving him an encouraging nudge. "Or are you going to make us all starve?"

His chuckles forced, Éomer responded, "Nay, I have no intentions of that, my lady wife." Getting to his feet, determinedly looking anywhere but at Gúthwyn, he lifted his mug as a signal for silence. The chattering of the Dol Amroth women—yet not the sidelong glances at his sister—were quelled.

"My friends," he said, struggling to compose himself and think of something to say. "I shall not speak too long, for I am sure you are all hungry."

Not the best he could have done, but it was a start.

"After we are done feasting, there will be dancing for those of you who are brave enough to attempt it, and excellent music for those of you who are not."

He got a few laughs there, but since most of the people were from Dol Amroth and were therefore perfectly capable of maneuvering complicated waltzes, they would not be able to relate to such sentiments.

"May you all enjoy yourselves!"

On that pathetic ending, he raised his cup in a silent toast to his visitors and sat back down again. Immediately the servants came forth, setting out a multitude of steaming platters that made his stomach growl. He had not eaten for most of the day, as he and Imrahil had been discussing relations between their countries. Fortunately, the taste of seafood was not nearly as bad as its smell—and there was still plenty of meat at the table.

Gradually, the noise in the hall returned to its original level. Lothíriel and her family started discussing sailing races that were often held in Dol Amroth, but for once Éomer was not listening attentively to his wife. He was too busy watching his sister, wondering how he could best bring up the matter of the dress. She clearly knew how revealing it was: she kept folding her arms across her chest as if she were cold, and her eyes darted amongst the diners with all the edginess of a rabbit under the hawk's shadow.

_I will have to speak to her in private,_ he decided. He did not know how much more of this he could take. Most of the guests looked away whenever his sister glanced in their direction, but as soon as her attention was elsewhere they continued to gape at her. Yet regardless of how awkward the situation was, he did not wish to make things worse by mentioning it in front of everyone.

In an effort to take his mind off the issue at hand, he let his gaze wander down the table, noting the seating arrangements his wife had assembled. As usual, those from Dol Amroth were closer to their end. Éomer was more willing to accommodate Lothíriel in this, as he did not doubt that she missed her people, but their conversation was rather vapid at times and he far preferred the easy-going natures of his Riders. They had been placed between the visitors and the advisors, none too happy with such a location but having more than made up for it at previous feasts.

As Éomer looked towards the councilors, he was not at all surprised to see Cobryn's attention fixed on Gúthwyn. He, too, was examining the dress, but there was no lust in his gaze and he seemed more perturbed than anything. When at length he detected Éomer watching him, he met the king's eyes and cocked his head in her direction, mouthing, "What is that?"

Éomer shrugged uneasily. He glanced again at his sister, noting that she had not touched any of the dishes. Instead, she was staring at the table, her cheeks positively burning.

"Gúthwyn," he said quietly. She jumped; when she finally lifted her head, he saw with a pang that her expression was nothing short of miserable.

"Y-Yes?" she asked, shivering.

"Are you not going to eat?"

"I-I am not hungry."

With that simple sentence, a crushing sense of defeat overwhelmed Éomer. He had been convinced that he would never hear those words pass through her lips again. She had gained all of her weight back over the summer, looking healthy for the first time in years. Two meals a day she consumed without complaint, the majority of them normal-sized. The tangy smell which he now recognized to be vomit had disappeared from her room, and she had not fallen sick since June. Foolishly, stupidly, he had believed her eating problems vanquished.

He could only begin to comprehend just how wrong he was.

"You need to have something," he managed, feeling an unexpected surge of irritation towards Lothíriel. What had she been thinking, to give his baby sister that gown? Had she not noticed how Gúthwyn was afraid of anything that connected to a union between a man and a woman? For that was what that neckline was just begging for—and surrounded by formally attired nobles, it almost made her look like a whore.

"Éomer, I am not hungry," Gúthwyn now protested feebly, cringing when Imrahil glanced at her.

With a muffled curse, Éomer slipped into the Rohirric tongue. "We are not going to start this again," he said, sternly enough so that she would understand how serious he was yet not so abrasive that others might wonder at it. "You will eat a decent meal tonight, and that is final."

Gúthwyn sighed, lowering her eyes down to her hands. She reached out and took a piece of bread from a nearby basket.

_Not again,_ Éomer thought, remembering wistfully how just this afternoon she had eaten vegetable soup.

"What is wrong?" Lothíriel inquired then, looking concernedly at him. His earlier annoyance with her evaporated; what did she know, after all, about his baby sister, especially when he had worked so painstakingly hard to keep certain details of Gúthwyn's past a secret? Lothíriel could not be blamed for this mishap, even if better judgment would have been desirable.

"Nothing," he said with a sigh, ruffling the hair on Elfwine's head. His son beamed up at him, happy to be the center of attention.

"Horse!" he cried, pointing at the decorations on his tiny tunic.

"Are you sure?" Lothíriel asked, gently taking Éomer's hand. "You seem preoccupied."

"Nay." Éomer shook his head, trying to think of an excuse. "I am just going over the preparations for the tournament." Although that was by no means a small undertaking, little was further from his mind at the moment.

"Oh, you have been doing too much planning this week," Lothíriel scolded him. "Come, join our conversation. We were just discussing Gondorian horses, and I daresay we could use your expertise on the matter."

Éomer consented to this, and allowed himself to be swept up in a debate about the stallions in King Elessar's realm, yet time and time again he could not help but glance back at Gúthwyn. Throughout the entire dinner she remained stationary, speaking only briefly to Amrothos and Legolas. The sole occasion on which she smiled was when Elfwine called her name from across the table. And when the dishes were being cleared, Éomer saw the plate that was being taken away from her and realized that she had not touched her food at all.


	86. Further Humiliation

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighty-Six:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eighty-Six**

It was the worst ball Gúthwyn had ever attended.

Not that she had been present at many, of course. But she knew that no matter the number she was invited to in the future, none would be as horrible as this one. Throughout all of dinner, she was subject to humiliating stares and could not muster the stomach to swallow anything. Even Éomer seemed to be avoiding her eye, the sole exception being the time he had berated her for not eating.

To make matters worse, the one person whose attention she had desired did not even deign to look her way. Amrothos had leaned over during the second course and whispered that Elphir was staring at her whenever he thought himself undetected, but if the eldest prince had she could discern no sign of it. He stayed at the table as long as was necessary not to offend Éomer and then left; she did not see him for the rest of the night.

After his departure, the musicians began playing in earnest, causing many of the seats to be vacated. The area cleared for dancing became crowded, each couple more elegant than the next, but Gúthwyn did not take much pleasure in watching them.

"Such a long face is not comely," Amrothos remarked, taking the empty chair next to her. Gúthwyn flinched, her eyes darting to where Legolas sat, but the prince appeared to be contemplating something and did not notice.

She did not know what to say in response to Amrothos's comment, so she pressed her lips together and did not speak.

"Now we are not talking? I thought only the Gondorians were this haughty."

Gúthwyn took a deep breath, willing herself to remain calm. _Must you be so belligerent?_ she wanted to ask.

"Am I that—"

"Why did you give me this dress?" she suddenly hissed, turning to glare at him. Her voice was but a whisper, so that Legolas would not hear. "Elphir hates it, he—"

"He told you this?" Amrothos inquired disbelievingly.

"No," Gúthwyn admitted, "but he—"

"Did he ever frown at you?" the prince interrupted.

"No—"

"Did he even comment about it?"

"No, but—"

"There you have it!" Amrothos exclaimed triumphantly, causing her to nearly scream in frustration. "I would not be surprised if he has gone off somewhere to bemoan his stupidity—there is not a more appealing woman in the hall tonight."

Caught off-guard by his flippant flattery, Gúthwyn winced. "Do not say that."

"It is a long overdue compliment," Amrothos replied, waving away her concerns. "My brother, of course, has always had excellent taste in women."

"Stop lying," Gúthwyn said coldly. "We both know I look like a whore in this gown."

Abruptly she stopped, horrified that she had uttered such a thing in front of her guest. For a moment, Amrothos appeared taken aback. Then, to her surprise, he grinned and murmured, "Yet I think it a safe wager that many a so-called noble here wishes that their wife had to confidence to wear such a dress. It leaves very little to the imagination, you know."

Gúthwyn froze, for nearly thirty seconds forgetting how to breathe. She broke out into a sweat, remembering Lumren's leering gaze and the lust the man had never bothered to conceal. _I cannot believe this is happening,_ she thought. The situation was spiraling out of her control; what else would Amrothos say? She so desperately wanted him to stop, yet the words stuck in her throat and she could not give voice to her discomfort.

"Excuse me."

Gúthwyn jumped, almost tipping over her chair in the process. When she glanced up, her heart was the fainter to see Legolas watching her concernedly.

"I-I am sorry," she apologized, irritated with herself for being so edgy. _You should not be so affected by Amrothos's character_, she thought angrily, _especially when you know very well that he behaves this way around every woman that he meets!_

"Nay, I should not have interrupted," Legolas was swift to say, but the expression on his face as he looked at Amrothos told her that he had heard everything. As Gúthwyn's cheeks colored with this realization, the Elf explained, "I was merely wondering if I might have the pleasure of dancing with you."

Gúthwyn was nearly out of her seat before he finished talking. "Yes, you may," she said, more relieved than she cared to admit about finally having an excuse to avoid Amrothos's odious company.

With a nod, Legolas walked around the table until he was standing beside her. A tremor of nervousness wound its way through her body, though she managed to quell it by reminding herself of the alternative.

"Pardon me," Legolas said to Amrothos, giving a small bow. "I hope I have not intruded on anything important."

"Not at all," Amrothos assured him cavalierly, his dark features devoid of emotion. Gúthwyn felt even more uncomfortable when he added lightly, "Pray keep in mind that there are others who would dance with your partner!"

"That I will," Legolas responded. Was it Gúthwyn's imagination, or did his voice turn slightly cold?

She did not have much time to dwell on this. His exchange with the Dol Amroth prince finished, Legolas offered his hand to her. She hesitated for but a second before accepting it, and as they left the table she found herself holding it tighter than she normally would have. Flushing at such obvious evidence of her anxiety, she swiftly loosened her grip.

"Thank you so much," she breathed as soon as Amrothos was out of sight.

"I was unable to feign ignorance to his offensive language any longer," Legolas replied grimly. "Are you all right?"

Gúthwyn nodded. "Now that I am not with him," she muttered. "He has been doing this ever since his arrival."

Legolas's brow knitted as they drew closer to the couples. "The same inappropriate behavior?"

Again, Gúthwyn nodded. "From what I have heard, he treats all women thusly."

"He has no right to do so with you," Legolas spoke, his tone unusually vehement. "Does Éomer know of this?"

"He has more important things on his mind," Gúthwyn answered. "Besides, it is more irritating than truly bothersome. I am sure he would want me to bear it as best as I could."

She stopped then, for they had come to the dance floor. With a sinking heart she surveyed those around them, noticing the complicated twists and turns of the waltz. She could not even begin to consider attempting them, never mind the footwork that she caught glimpses of beneath whirling gowns.

"Do you know this dance?" Legolas inquired, taking her other hand.

"No," Gúthwyn confessed; "I think it is hopeless. I would only humiliate you, I should not—"

"Do not worry," Legolas told her. "There is a simpler version that we can do without attracting much attention."

For a moment, Gúthwyn wondered how much further her reputation in the court of Dol Amroth would fall upon them discovering that she could not keep up with their dances, but the resulting flare of anger stiffened her resolve. _Why should I care what they think of me?_ she demanded silently. _Let them laugh; it matters not._

"So long as it does not require a great amount of skill on my part," she conceded, determined to retain some of her dignity.

"It shall not," Legolas promised with a grin, which she was able to return. _You are surrounded by people,_ she told herself. _No harm can come to you now—what do you have to lose?_

This she repeated in her mind as Legolas extended their arms out to the side, the position they often assumed when dancing with each other. Reassured by its familiarity, Gúthwyn found herself relaxing slightly, but memories of Amrothos's remarks would not let her to wholly forget her troubles.

As if reading her mind, Legolas asked then, "Amrothos gave you that dress?"

She was almost afraid to meet his eyes, but when they did not perform the reflexive flick downwards she mustered her courage and informed him, "It is actually Lothíriel's. Amrothos thought Elphir would find it… befitting."

And what a miserable plan that had been. Clearly, Amrothos did not know his brother well enough to give out advice to those who were attempting to capture his attention.

Legolas's brow was knitted in confusion. "Yet why would you wish to draw his notice, when you have no intention of marrying him?"

Gúthwyn sighed as they performed a small turn. This was getting more complicated by the minute. "I do not," she confirmed, "but I want to speak with him alone, and since it seems that he is willing to go to extraordinary lengths to avoid me, I must resort to less desirable options."

Legolas raised an eyebrow, placing a hand on her back to guide her through another series of steps. "And how might a dress improve your position?"

She could not help but flush. Coming from his mouth, the plan sounded a lot less reasonable and much more like a farce. "A-Amrothos said that Elphir would like it on me," she explained, "and that he would be in a better mood because of it."

A wave of glitter and stifled giggles passed them, and she caught a brief glimpse of Lady Míriel's mocking face before she and her husband swept away.

"I-It did not work at all," Gúthwyn admitted shakily, her self-consciousness—forgotten for a precious moment—returning as swiftly as a galloping steed. It was all she could do not to attempt to cover herself up.

Legolas looked as if he were about to say something, but instead settled on, "Have you confronted him?"

"The Valar know I have tried," Gúthwyn said wearily, and then narrowly missed stepping on the Elf's foot. "He makes up an excuse to elude me most of the time; occasionally, he refuses to speak and just walks away."

"If I were friends with him, I would offer to question him about it, but we have not been acquainted well enough for me to presume to do so," Legolas responded apologetically.

Touched by his thoughtfulness, especially since it was directed towards the person who had shunned him for the better part of a year, Gúthwyn hastened to tell him that she would find a way to talk to Elphir on her own. "Yet… thank you for your kindness."

They made another turn, and this time she was able to complete it with a semblance of grace.

"Nay, I wish I could do more," Legolas said, smiling at her success. "That was good."

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to give her thanks once more, but just then she really did tread on his boot.

"Sorry!" she cried out in exasperation, frustrated by her ineptitude. "I am too clumsy for this…"

"You have not had any lessons," Legolas reminded her. "I daresay I was worse before my father hired me an instructor."

Somehow, Gúthwyn doubted that. "Surely not," she retorted. "I was under the impression that all Elves were graceful."

She stiffened as soon as the words slipped out, praying that he would not somehow find them offensive, but to her relief she did not. "Aye," he agreed, steering them in a different direction, "that is the case when we mature. Yet we were all children once, and my father could certainly assure you that I in no way, shape, or form possessed this elegance that you speak of."

In spite of herself, Gúthwyn laughed. "That sounds like something my uncle would have said about me," she replied, feeling a small pang of sadness at the mention of Théoden. How she wished she had not been so tricked into thinking that he truly did not love her—if there was one thing about her captivity in Mordor that she could have gone back and changed, with the exception of Borogor's death, her foolishness would have been it.

At that moment, the dance ended. He bowed, she performed a slightly wobbly curtsy, and the two of them went their separate ways. Without a partner to shield her from the keen glances of the women from Dol Amroth, Gúthwyn felt as though she had been thrust into a circle of them. Everywhere she turned they were staring at her, most of them not even bothering to lift their appalled gazes to her face. Wincing, she folded her arms across her chest, wondering where she could go to.

Her end of the table was out of the question. A quick glance at it told her that Imrahil was still there, and while Elfwine was in his arms and Éomer was in the process of taking his seat, she did not want to be in the presence of Elphir's father. She could only imagine what he now thought of her. Trying to lose herself in the crowd was also not an option: if she found herself near drunk enough people, she would be subject to lewd comments concerning her attire.

For a moment, she debated whether or not to seek out Hammel and Haiweth, but she swiftly decided against it. She was too ashamed to approach them when dressed so inappropriately, and prayed that they had not seen her. Hammel's regard for her would likely plummet; even Haiweth would wonder why she was so scantily clad. Had the child yet heard the rumors surrounding her caretaker's habits? Would she pay any heed to them?

_Cobryn,_ she decided at last, knowing that he would be able to help her sort through this mess. Filled with a sense of purpose, she stepped off the floor and scanned the long table for him. She found him about halfway down, for once not conversing with the other advisors. He had turned his chair so that it was facing the dancers, and the way his eyes were scanning them made her think that he was searching for her. Glad for a sight of someone who would not make her uncomfortable, she began walking towards him…

…And promptly ran into Amrothos.

"Hello, again," he greeted her, looking distinctly pleased. Flustered, Gúthwyn stepped back, smoothing out her cursed dress.

"H-Hello," she muttered, glancing wistfully at Cobryn. She doubted that she would be able to convene with her friend in the near future.

As it turned out, she was right. "May I have this dance?" he inquired, closing the gap between them.

It was all Gúthwyn could do not to cringe. "I-I do not know this one," she said, her eyes darting to the mass of couples whom she had just escaped. They were moving in some sort of formation, one in which she would stick out like a sore thumb were she to try it.

Her excuse was not good enough for Amrothos, who lifted an eyebrow and pointed out, "It is not at all dissimilar to what you were doing with Legolas."

Unfortunately, upon closer inspection he turned out to be right. "I am tired," she attempted again. "I was going to—"

"After one waltz?" Amrothos asked incredulously.

Caught in a corner, Gúthwyn flushed, considering whether or not to point-blank say that she did not want to dance with him. Yet she could not: as the king's sister, she was bound to cumbersome duties like these, and if her guests wished her to be their partner she was obliged to comply with their request. Struggling not to sigh, she took a deep breath and replied, "Fine."

"Do I detect hostility?" Amrothos questioned, holding his hand out to her.

Reluctantly, Gúthwyn accepted it. "Perhaps I would be in a better mood if you had not given me this abominable dress."

"You were the one who put it on," was his quick response. A slender hand slid to her waist as they rejoined the couples.

"You were the one who told me that it would win Elphir's favor," Gúthwyn retorted, her eyes narrowing.

"It would have, had you not been so self-conscious," Amrothos snapped, whirling her around with more force than was necessary. Not having expected that, Gúthwyn found herself having to grip his hands in order to keep her footing. He took the opportunity to lean in closer and add, "I went to the trouble of lying to my sister so that she might give you this gown—the least you could have done was held up your end of the plan!"

Gúthwyn's jaw dropped. "When you said that you were going to find a suitable dress, I expected that it would be something halfway decent!"

"One must take risks in order to gain," Amrothos answered as they executed another turn, putting more pressure on the hand upon her waist. Gúthwyn nearly stepped on his foot by accident, having stiffened and forgotten what the next move was.

"This one was not worth it," she said. "Elphir still wants nothing to do with me, and now I am left to endure the stares of your entire court!"

"You shall just have to try harder next time," Amrothos shrugged, clearly not concerned with her troubles. "Since this was such an abysmal failure, we have far more work cut out for us in the future."

Gúthwyn sighed, not liking where the situation was headed. She was not at all sure that she was willing to trust him again.

"Have you lost faith already?" he asked, seeing her hesitation. He twirled her around again; losing her balance, Gúthwyn nearly fell into him before he straightened her out with a smirk. "Shall I remind you of how poorly you were doing on your own before I stepped in?"

Insulted, Gúthwyn snapped, "You and your family have only been here for a week. Besides, having you 'help' me has not done anything to improve—"

"And prior to my assistance, had you succeeded in getting more than five whole sentences out of him?" Amrothos interjected.

"No, yet—"

"I rest my case."

Gúthwyn wanted to scream. It was impossible to deal with this man! Why did he insist on being so abrasive, so arrogant? How was it that he always managed to make her as uncomfortable as she was now?

Mercifully, at that moment the dance ended. Amrothos looked as if he wished to ask her for another, and was already tightening his grip on her, but she pulled away and dropped a wobbling curtsy.

"I am worn out," she lied, her heart hammering. "Excuse me."

She made to turn from him, yet she had not even taken a step before she felt his fingers circling around her arms. "One more," he said, drawing her to him so that her back was brushing against his chest. His hips were pressed into hers. "I have another idea."

Gúthwyn froze, and to her horror she felt tears coming to her eyes. This contact was so unwanted, so abhorred, that familiar coils of nausea began winding themselves within her belly and she thought she would be sick in front of everyone.

"Get your hands off of me," she at last choked out.

Whether it was the tone of her voice or some other warning, Amrothos withdrew the gesture. His reticence came too late: nearly half of the dancers were now gaping at them, stunned by such a display of intimacy. Horrified, she saw that most of the stares were directed at her. Later, she realized that those from Dol Amroth expected such antics from their prince, but had yet to see someone of her status so willingly comply with them.

At the moment, however, all she cared about was getting as far away from Amrothos as possible. The instant he released her she ran, almost knocking over a couple and receiving absolutely foul glares from another. She did not stop until she had reached the table, where to her relief Cobryn had not moved.

"What was that?" he demanded when she collapsed into the seat next to him. For once, none of the advisors paid attention to her; they were too busy discussing the amount of sheep wool that had been produced in the Eastfold.

Still struggling not to cry, Gúthwyn buried her head in her hands and shrugged.

"Is this why you have been so wary of him?"

Éomund's daughter nodded, wanting to do nothing more than curl up into a ball and forget where Amrothos's hands had touched her. Her entire body was shaking with disgust.

"Gúthwyn, stop. Look at me."

Wiping her eyes, Gúthwyn obeyed, lifting her head but determinedly not meeting Cobryn's gaze. Her vision was blurred, yet not so much that she could not see the stares being thrown her way. For the first time since the musicians had begun playing, the song was second fiddle to the whispers, which permeated throughout the Golden Hall and reached even the outer edges of the room.

"Was it Amrothos who gave you your dress?"

Gúthwyn stiffened in surprise, not for the first time marveling at her friend's uncanny knack for discovering that which she was too ashamed to admit.

"Why would you say that?" she asked, fighting to keep her expression as normal as it could be under the circumstances.

"While the two of you were arguing, I noticed that his eyes often wandered from your face, and he seemed pleased with himself." Cobryn's tone was unusually steely. "Do not avoid the question, for I will find out using other means if I have to."

"It was Lothíriel."

As desperately as she needed Cobryn's advice, she knew he would not approve of the method she was employing to win Elphir's attentions. She could hardly bear it herself. If it became known to her friend that she was conspiring with Imrahil's youngest son, she could only imagine the disappointment that would cross his features. He would attempt to talk her out of such a course of action, which—as much as she did not like Amrothos—she had no intention of straying from. Maybe the prince was right. Perhaps what she needed to do was make more of an effort; after all, she had accomplished nothing during dinner, not even working up the courage to speak to Elphir.

"Lothíriel was the one who wanted you to wear it?"

Gúthwyn nodded, praying that Cobryn could not read her emotions as well as he could the pages of a book. If he did not detect any falsity on her part, there was no reason for him to doubt that the queen was the one responsible for the scandal currently sweeping throughout Meduseld. Lothíriel was on the top of an ever-growing list of people who wished her ill, and it was not difficult to accept that she had wanted to and succeeded in causing her rival as much humiliation as possible.

"And you agreed to this?" Cobryn pressed her.

"I did not have anything else," Gúthwyn explained, which was partly true. However, even if a pair of leggings and a tunic had been all that was left in her wardrobe, she would have elected to wear them over a white garment any day.

Cobryn arched an eyebrow. "That was not one of your wiser choices."

"I know that," she snapped, and then regretted her words instantly. "Sorry," she murmured gruffly. "I just… I did not think it would be like this."

Sighing, Cobryn replied, "You need to be more careful about your doings, especially now that we are hosting such a large delegation from Lothíriel's home. Thanks to your brother's wife, everyone already believes you to have no sense of propriety. I daresay I am implicated in various rumors, as well. Whatever the case may be, they came here anticipating you committing a number of social blunders, and tonight you have not let them down. You must monitor your behavior more strictly, or you will run the risk of creating an even bigger mess."

"Yes, and of course everything is my fault, is it not?" she near-shouted, causing several reclining guests to look at her even more strangely. "I no longer recognize the place my home has become, if my slightest movement is criticized and I am frowned upon for making an appearance! The least you could have done was try to make me feel better for it, rather than chastise me for not conforming to the ridiculous standards of these loathsome guests!"

"Gúthwyn, you—"

"Save your sermon for someone else," she snarled, leaping to her feet. "No wonder Hammel is sick of you."

With that, she stormed away, and thus did not see his eyes widen in both shock and hurt. A spate of selfishness had overcome her, and all she could think about was how he had failed to help her when she was floundering in a sea of her enemies. _Damn him,_ she thought angrily. _All he ever does is point out my flaws and tell me that I am disgracing Éomer!_  
She was tired of Cobryn always having to be right, always cautioning her against enjoying herself and constantly acting as if he were the only person in all of Rohan who knew her well enough to instruct her in her affairs. She was tired of him choosing reason over compassion, abandoning sympathy in favor of analyzing the situation and warning her about the consequences of even the littlest, most irrelevant aspect of her behavior.

Her mood was so foul that when she heard someone call her name, she whirled around and growled, "_What now?_"

The flames of her rage were doused when she saw Lothíriel's puzzled expression, and an ice-cold feeling settled in her stomach at the sight of the Dol Amroth nobility seated around her, not too far from where Éomer was entertaining Imrahil. Their numbers included Lady Aewen and some of the women who were often seen with Míriel, all of whom were looking at her as if she had grown another head.

"I was hoping you would help us with something," Lothíriel finally said after a pause, her eyes narrowing in a way that made Gúthwyn think twice about refusing, wary though she was of the queen's intentions.

"With what?" Éomund's daughter asked suspiciously, not liking how Lothíriel's companions were examining her.

"Well," Lothíriel began, sighing, "I am afraid that I am rather forgetful sometimes. Hammel and Haiweth happened to come up in our conversation, and—"

"What about them?" Gúthwyn interrupted, instantly on the defense. Her chest was still rising and falling with the fury that had previously been directed at Cobryn, but it could easily be transferred to the person who dared to slight either of the children.

"How extraordinarily well behaved the girl is," Lady Aewen elucidated, her thin smile not meeting her eyes. "The boy, however, I have not often seen."

There was a general round of agreement, and while Gúthwyn was pleased by their assessment of Haiweth, she disliked the lack of favor surrounding Hammel—even if he was rather temperamental at times.

"As I was saying," Lothíriel began after the murmuring had died down, "we were wondering who their father was, and I do not recall if you ever told me."

Gúthwyn paused. Something did not seem right about Lothíriel's query, yet she could not place her finger on it. When had she ever spoken to the queen about Hammel and Haiweth's parents?

Not wanting to seem as if she were withholding information, she quickly cleared her throat and replied, "I never learned his name." This, unfortunately, was true. Haiweth had been too young to remember it, and if Hammel did he had not given it to her. She rarely discussed with the children their parents, particularly because of the grisly fates they had suffered. "I did not, ah… know him for very long."

Lothíriel nodded in understanding, but the same could not be said for her friends. Gúthwyn was confused by their reactions, which varied between revolted and astounded. She felt a surge of vexation gathering force within her. Why was it that everything she did or said was considered a breach of social conduct? What was the matter with these people? Was her mere existence an insult to their rigid rules of order?

Luckily, it was then that she caught sight of Éomer, who had risen from his seat and was beckoning her to join him. Inclining her head at Lothíriel, noting uneasily that the queen was acting perfectly happy to have spoken to her, Gúthwyn quickly took her leave and abandoned her less than favorable situation. No sooner had she gone five feet from the ladies' seats than an explosion of whispering and rustling occurred.

"The absolute _nerve!_" she heard, an inexplicable comment uttered by Lady Aewen.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, wondering what on Middle-earth she had done wrong this time, Gúthwyn nevertheless kept walking towards Éomer.

"Sister," he spoke, taking her by the arm when she stopped before him, "I want you to change out of that dress."

It was the last thing she had expected him to say. "What?" she asked, blinking in bewilderment.

"Go to your chambers and take it off," Éomer hissed into her ear. "I care not what you put on instead, even if it is a wine barrel. Nearly all of our guests are offended by it, and the talk I have heard because of it I dare not repeat to you. I cannot tolerate this any longer."

Gúthwyn's jaw dropped. Now her own brother blamed her for the evening's mishaps? It was becoming an all-out war to prevent the tears from welling up in her eyes and spilling over, one that she was finding herself in terrible danger of losing. This ball had been a royal disaster. Her odious dress had effectively ruined her reputation amongst Imrahil's court, Amrothos had humiliated her in front of the entire hall, Cobryn had refused to help her, Lothíriel's friends were appalled by every sentence that left her mouth, and to top the whole fiasco off Éomer now thought it was her fault.

"B-Brother," she choked out miserably, "I never—"

Catching sight of her expression and understanding her thoughts, Éomer swiftly cupped her chin in his hands. "I do not hold you responsible for tonight," he murmured reassuringly. "I should never have allowed this to continue as long as it did, and I fear that there will be harmful gossip about you in the future because of this evening."

Gúthwyn nearly lost it then. Tomorrow seemed as if it would never come, but when it did she knew that the rumors would be multiplied tenfold. It was enough to make her want to bar herself in her room, refusing to stir from her bed until their visitors had left.

"I-I will go," she whispered shakily, pulling away from Éomer. "E-Excuse me."

As she was striding towards her chambers, she tripped over a foot that had been stuck out into her path, and the tinkering of Nethiel's laughter echoed in her ears long after she had fled into the private corridor.


	87. Repercussions

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighty-Seven:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eighty-Seven**

Éomer absent-mindedly twisted the corners of his napkin, every now and then glancing to the corridor he had last seen Gúthwyn disappearing into. Try as he might to concentrate on his conversation with Imrahil, it became increasingly difficult to as more time passed. What was taking her so long? He had sent her away over ten minutes ago—surely it was not that arduous a process to change into another gown.

"…not agree?"

Starting, he looked at Imrahil and saw the prince watching him expectantly. Frantically the king of Rohan racked his brain for what they might have been talking about, but he could only vaguely remember discussing the upcoming tournament and was not at all sure if they were still on the subject.

"I am sorry," he apologized, sighing guiltily. "I was lost in my thoughts; what were you saying?"

"That I believe it is time for me to speak to my son."

"Which one?" Éomer questioned, his mind flashing first to Elphir—his fists clenched—and then to Amrothos (at which point he was tempted to do several things to his friend's male offspring, none of them involving speech).

A grim smile crossed Imrahil's face. "My eldest, though I daresay it is time for the youngest to be reprimanded as well."  
Éomund's son resisted the urge to offer to do the job himself.

"Elphir's behavior towards Gúthwyn has been despicable," Imrahil added, meeting Éomer's eyes apologetically, "and know that I in no way condone it."

"What of Amrothos?" Éomer pressed him, his gaze narrowing.

Imrahil shifted uneasily in his chair. "He has long held a, ah… fondness for the opposite gender that I regret to say I have not been successful in curbing. I thought he was improving, but it seems that I was wrong. It has not escaped my notice that he has been spending more time with your sister of late."

"I have seen that, also," Éomer responded darkly.

Imrahil nodded. "He can never resist flirting with a woman, but I had expected him to show more sense when dealing with Lady Gúthwyn."

Éomer's gaze flicked over the crowd, instinctively searching for Amrothos. He had seen the prince dancing with Gúthwyn earlier, but Elfwine had demanded his attention before long and he had not been able to observe them as closely as he would have liked. The baby in question was now fast asleep in his arms, having stayed up well past his bedtime.

He caught sight of Amrothos leaning against a pillar in the corner of the hall, his dark eyes surveying the people from over the rim of a tankard. The man was not malicious in appearance, but there was something in his expression that stirred up Éomer's brotherly instincts. It was more than Amrothos's reputation that set him on guard; yet he could not explain exactly what it was, and that troubled him.

"Gúthy," Elfwine murmured blearily, stirring in his sleep. Éomer smiled at this, thinking of the close bond his sister shared with her nephew. Gúthwyn had a gift with children: they instinctively flocked to her, as he had seen often when she used to take Haiweth out to play with her friends. Elfwine was no exception, something that cheered Éomer greatly. His son was capable of making Gúthwyn happy merely by looking at her—and as someone who had seen far too many of his baby sister's low points, he was relieved that this was so.

Just then, he remembered that he was supposed to be in the middle of a conversation with Prince Imrahil. Guiltily he shook himself out of his thoughts and turned back to his friend, hoping his lack of attention had not been too obvious. Yet the other man had not seemed to notice. He was scrutinizing his daughter, who had taken leave of them to entertain her friends. Éomer glanced over at them and wondered at their expressions, for they were furiously discussing something and they seemed absolutely appalled.

Lothíriel remained aloof from the talk, only occasionally adding something to the dialogue, and when she met Éomer's eyes she smiled sympathetically. The king of Rohan was left with little doubt as to the subject of their guests' discourse: he had seen Gúthwyn with them before finally telling her to change out of the dress. His sister had not appeared particularly distraught after her dealings with them, but it was quite possible that her gown had spoken volumes more than her and she was completely oblivious to Dol Amroth… well, prudishness.

After five more minutes of waiting, Éomer had had enough. _What is taking her so long?_ he wondered as he excused himself from Imrahil's presence and handed his son over. Sound asleep, Elfwine did not notice the transition. Glad that the child remained undisturbed, Éomer pushed in his chair and began making his way towards Gúthwyn's chambers, worry quickening his movements.

As he walked, he could hear snippets of conversation from his guests. Everyone whom he passed seemed to be discussing hair ribbons, wine, or the weather, but when he started paying closer attention he could hear an undercurrent of spite and gossip, all of which was directed at his baby sister. To his surprise and horror, her dress was not the only thing they were talking about.

"…absolutely disgusting," he heard a miffed Lady Míriel whisper to her husband, a man whom Éomer had met once and recalled not liking. The two of them were standing near a pillar, unaware of their proximity to the king of Rohan. "One cannot hold Amrothos to very high standards of propriety, but _she_ should have been more decorous! Did you see them?"

"Who did not?" was Lord Tulkadan's dark reply. "I cannot blame Elphir for wanting to rid himself of all connection with her. She is certainly the most ill-bred of the family."

Anger swelled within Éomer, so acute and forceful that he soon found it difficult to refrain from storming over to the insolent couple and ripping out their throats. Lady Míriel was a shameless gossiper, or so Lothíriel had informed him, but her husband had no such excuse.

_Calm yourself,_ he thought. _They do not know any better. Gúthwyn's behavior is not normal for someone of her status—it is not so unreasonable that they disapprove of her actions._

All the same, he could not help but clench his fists as he determinedly strode past them, deriving no small amount of satisfaction when they jumped upon noticing his presence and hastily reverted to a conversation about the price of silk from Harad. Now he knew why all of the other nobles had been engaged by such dull topics: they had not wanted him to hear their remarks about Gúthwyn.

Unfortunately, he was the only person to blame for this night. He should have trusted his gut and told his baby sister to change the second she appeared in the hall. On the eve of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, Théoden had surrendered to him the care of his sisters. Éowyn was no longer his responsibility, but it was still his duty to watch over Gúthwyn and, had he been more considerate, he would never have allowed her to attend the ball wearing such garments.

Berating himself for his stupidity, he entered the corridor leading to her quarters. All was quiet here, everyone being at the feast. No sound came from Gúthwyn's room, not even when he lifted his hand and knocked on the door.

"Sister?" he asked cautiously, wondering what she could possibly be doing.

She did not answer.

When he tried again and received no response, he turned the knob of the door. To his relief, it had not been locked. Stepping into the room, he was surprised to see Gúthwyn sitting on her bed, her shoulders slumped and her eyes gazing off into the distance. The dress was crumpled into a ball and shoved into the far corner of the room; in its place she now wore a nightgown and what must have been at least two robes. She did not stir when he entered her chambers.

"Gúthwyn?" he questioned gently, crossing the room and lowering himself down beside her. She blinked and looked away, staring at her lap. Éomer observed that her eyes were red. "What is wrong?"

Her lips parted and then closed again. She was shivering now, the tremors so slight that at first he did not notice them. Concerned, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Please, speak to me."

It was a long time before she obeyed him. When at last she did, her words were so hoarse and quiet that he had to lean closer to hear it. "I made a fool out of myself tonight."

"Gúthwyn—"

She made a motion to stop him. Clearly, whatever it was she wanted to say, it was costing her no small amount of effort: she was biting her lip, wringing her hands, and actually beginning to perspire. "I looked like… like a whore."

How he wished he could have told her otherwise.

Sensing his hesitation, Gúthwyn tilted her pale face upwards so that she could meet his gaze. Her voice was remarkably calm when she inquired, "Do you agree, brother?"

_Do not ask me that,_ Éomer longed to beg her. Caught between a rock and a hard place, he struggled to find something to say so that he would not be lying to Gúthwyn, yet not confirming her suspicions. The problem was that the neckline had, in fact, likened her appearance to that of a tavern wench's. It was one thing to see it on his wife when it was just the two of them, about to embark on a perfectly legitimate union. It was quite another to see it on his unmarried sister.

Shifting uncomfortably, he began, "I know you—"

"Yes or no, Éomer."

Despite the steely tone with which she addressed him, which all but ordered him to tell the horrible truth they both knew he had to give, there was a wild desperation behind her gaze that made him swallow and all of a sudden loathe his role as her caretaker.

"Yes," he muttered at length, speaking as quietly as possible—as though hoping she would not hear him. She blanched. Swiftly he went to cover her palms with his, continuing, "But it was not your—"

"Do not touch me!" she cried, removing her hands from his reach. Éomer complied, praying that she would not snap at his admission, that he had not shattered the fragile shelter around her mind. His heart clenched to see her struggling valiantly not to cry, turning her head away when at last her cheeks became wet.

"Gúthwyn," he began tentatively, "it was not your—"

"Everyone was staring at me," she choked out. "I-I might as well have not been wearing anything at all…"

"It was my fault," Éomer replied firmly. "I should never have let you keep the dress on."

Gúthwyn fell silent, biting her lip as if trying to think of a retort. "I have ruined e-everything," she murmured at length, twisting her slender fingers.

"What do you mean?" Éomer inquired. Her reputation was no doubt permanently damaged amongst the more foolish of his wife's former acquaintances, but they would be gone within a month and he could not have valued their opinions less.

"Th-They think that… that I g-gave birth to Hammel and Haiweth."

Éomer frowned. That was nothing new. Speculation concerning the boy and girl's true parentage had begun almost from the moment they had entered Gondor—very few nobles there believed his sister's story, the one that he had defended her with on countless occasions. He doubted that the rumors would ever go away. While it pained him to know that Gúthwyn was widely thought to have illegitimate children, he had long ago come to terms with the fact that he simply could not control the damage in this area.

Seeing the puzzled expression on his face, Gúthwyn took a deep breath and admitted, "I-I told them that I-I did not know who the father was… that I knew him for only a short amount of time."

Was "them" referring to the women of Dol Amroth he had seen her conversing with? Éomer turned his sister's words over in his mind, wondering why she should feel as though she had done wrong by telling them the truth. Yet less than a second later, a sudden sinking sensation wound itself in his gut. "Did you inform them that you were not the mother?"

Gúthwyn shook her head, her eyes welling up with tears. "I-I assumed they…"

He was starting to see why she was so upset. "Did Lothíriel not speak up on your behalf?" His wife would never have let such gossip go uncorrected; she had mentioned more than once being a target of malicious rumors in the past.

Yet Gúthwyn paused before saying, "She might have after I left, but you wanted to talk to me…"

Éomer tried to come up with something that might console her, though unfortunately Gúthwyn's status was in tatters and she had only made the situation worse. She was so oblivious to the ways of the court, a world in which your words would either ruin you or promote you to the highest levels of respectability, that occasionally he could not help but be glad that her marriage had fallen through: unless a drastic change occurred within her, she would never have survived Dol Amroth society.

Nevertheless, he said to her, "I am sure this will blow over in the morning. All of my men know that you have done no such thing—they will readily correct anyone who says otherwise."

"But Amrothos—"

Éomer was instantly alert. "What about him?" he demanded suspiciously when Gúthwyn did not continue, remembering the exchange he had overheard between Lady Míriel and Lord Tulkadan.

Yet his sister sighed, clearly unwilling to speak. "It is nothing," she at last settled on, which only served to raise Éomer's hackles even more.

"From what I have heard, it is _not_ nothing," he told her sternly.

"What have you heard?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"Tell me what happened," he pressed her. "For I have detected but a rumor, and I would know what he has done before I make the decision of whether or not to break his neck."

His words were only half in jest, and Gúthwyn paled when they left his lips. "It is nothing," she repeated. "My dancing was poor, so I had to rely on his help more than usual."

The way she said "help" merely tightened his guard. "What do you mean?" he interrogated her.

"Nothing!" she cried in frustration. "They are merely exaggerating."

"Who might 'they' be?"

A guilty flush spread across Gúthwyn's cheeks as Éomer pinned her neatly by her feigned ignorance.

"The people from Dol Amroth," she at last muttered, "the ones who were watching us."

This was going absolutely nowhere. Éomer decided to cut to the chase and put both of his hands on her shoulders, using them to turn her around so that she was facing him. Her tears had subsided, leaving in their wake several wet streaks upon her skin. She looked at him with wide eyes, trembling under his scrutiny. "Gúthwyn, please tell me what happened. You are obviously frightened of Amrothos, try though you might to conceal it. Everyone close to you has noticed. Did he hurt you at all?"

Gúthwyn shook her head.

"Did he say anything inappropriate to you?"

"It is just a feeling," she whispered. "He makes me uncomfortable."

Éomer paused. That could very well be the case, given Amrothos's personal history and the accusations that dogged him. It was almost guaranteed that Gúthwyn had heard of some of his exploits—and as she was absolutely terrified of anything that had even the faintest hint of lust, it was understandable that she would be nervous around him. But Éomer had observed the two of them spending more time together than they ever had before, and it made him wonder if Amrothos had any designs on her, or if he was simply attempting to be friendly.

"Just a feeling?" he repeated at length, gazing at her keenly as he lowered his arms.

"Brother, please," she murmured. "You have no reason to distrust him. I am being foolish."

"Then why did I hear several of our guests commenting about your dance with him?" Éomer wanted to know. He could not shake the belief that Gúthwyn was keeping things from him. Even though she did tend to panic at the slightest occurrence, often he could recognize the triggers as somehow being connected to the abuses Haldor had heaped upon her. Was it simply Amrothos's repute for visiting whores that was making her this anxious, or was it something more?

"You know I am horrible at waltzing," Gúthwyn said then, wiping her eyes and causing her hand to glitter in the candlelight. "He had to guide me through more turns than he was supposed to… that is the reason for the gossip, anything else is a lie."

_Or are you the one who is lying?_ Éomer wondered, now completely unsure whether or not to believe her. She _was_ terrible at dancing; that was no falsity on her part. And if Amrothos had to steady her frequently, it was no stretch to assume that she would have disliked his touch, especially when she was already ill at ease around him. Barely able to tolerate that of acquaintances, he could only imagine how edgy she would be around strangers. It all made sense—her explanation matched what he knew about her—yet still he was suspicious.

"A-And I did something else…'

"What?" Éomer inquired warily.

"I yelled at Cobryn," she confessed wretchedly, hanging her head. "He was only trying to… to help me, but I told him to… to save his sermon for someone else… I s-said it was a small wonder that H-Hammel was sick of him…"

Éomer raised his eyebrows at such diatribe coming from his normally placid sibling. Her criticism was generally reserved for nobles, by whom she had always been treated with disapproval; however, she and Cobryn were such close friends that the king's advisors had more than once suggested a marriage between them. Éomer certainly had no qualms with the idea, and if the situation arose would gladly welcome the younger man into his family, but this was the first time he had heard of them arguing.

"What was he trying to help you with?" he asked, highly curious about the matter.

"He was warning me to watch my behavior around the Dol Amroth nobles…"

"That is good advice for you to follow, sister," Éomer said softly. "I love you for who you are, yet there are others who would have you molded to fit the trappings of society. I do not like to see them frowning down at you."

Once again, Gúthwyn's eyes glistened. In an effort to bring her around, Éomer said, "You are wearing your nightgown."

It was a question, not a statement.

Gúthwyn nodded, drawing in a shaky breath. "I have done enough damage for one night," she responded heavily. "I will not go back."

"You are more than welcome to join us," Éomer said, trying to cajole her into leaving her retreat. The gossip would only spread more once her presence was removed from the hall, and if she returned in modest attire there was a possibility that some of the rumors might be curbed. It was a slim chance, but one that he was willing to take, especially since things had gone so far out of control.

Fully aware of this, Gúthwyn's response was to shrink even further into her nightgown, shaking her head once more.

"You do not have to speak to any of the lords or ladies," Éomer promised, taking her hand and squeezing it in a silent vow. Her fingers were easily covered by his, though at least they were no longer bony. "Elfwine would enjoy your company."

For a moment, Gúthwyn looked sorely tempted to do as he said, but just when he was beginning to think that she would come out of her shell she proved him wrong. "I cannot," she whispered, pulling away from him. "Not even for…" She swallowed, attempting to regain her composure. "The ball will run much more smoothly without my being there. Please, do not try to convince me otherwise. I shall see you in the afternoon."

Knowing that he would not sway her, Éomer decided to give her the privacy that she clearly desired. Getting to his feet, he bent over to kiss her on the brow and said, "If there is anything you need tonight, you have only to name it."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied, her voice barely audible. Her gaze had lost its focus again.

It was only after Éomer closed the door to her room that he belatedly remembered his sister still had not eaten. He debated whether or not to demand that she consume something before ultimately rejecting the notion; after all, her health had been better lately, and if she did not wish to resume her place at the table he would have to respect that. Besides, he told himself, now that she was back to normal there was no reason for her condition to lapse again.

Unfortunately, he had reckoned without taking his visitors into account.


	88. Banishment

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighty-Eight:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eighty-Eight**

"All right, little one, let us walk down the street," Gúthwyn said to Elfwine, lowering him to the ground. Her nephew shrieked in delight as his feet came into contact with the road and he eagerly lurched forward, holding her hands tightly for balance. Gúthwyn grinned to see him so ecstatic, feeling her spirits lifting with every step he took. Though her back was soon aching from bending over so much, she would not have traded positions with anyone in all of Middle-earth.

Including Éomer. Though he was the one who could call Elfwine his son, at the moment he was having a meeting with his advisors, still trying to devise strategies that would prevent Rohan's resources from being depleted during the visit from the Dol Amroth court. Gúthwyn's solution was simple—send the women home—but as she doubted the other men would see it that way, she had not even bothered to attend. Her presence would have been more harmful than helpful, and the friction between her and Cobryn would have made the situation excessively awkward.

Gúthwyn sighed, for once not cheered as Elfwine pointed at a bushel of hay and declared it to be red. She had attempted to seek her friend out earlier in the day, even rising before noon in the hopes of finding him after his class with the boys, but after several frustrating minutes of interrogation Hammel had grudgingly told her that Elfhelm had instructed them that day. There was a conflict, the boy had irritably explained, between the lesson and the meeting. By the time Gúthwyn had at last returned to the Golden Hall, it was only to find an extremely annoyed Lothíriel, who had quickly handed Elfwine over to her along with the accusation that she had been searching for her for almost half an hour.

Not that Éomund's daughter minded taking care of Elfwine, of course. She had missed him during her self-imposed exile from the throne room, and her thoughts had strayed to him often while she lay huddled beneath the covers. Now that he was in her care once more, she could not have been happier—unless, of course, the delegation from Dol Amroth decided to leave.

"Horse!" Elfwine cried, toddling in the direction of a Rider who was returning with his stallion. The animal's coat was gleaming and his powerful muscles were confidently bearing his master up the street, something Gúthwyn noted with a pang. As much as she did not want to, she knew she would have to begin the search for a new horse. Such a task was not easy: aside from having to feel a connection to the mount she chose, Éomer would want to ensure that she did not select one that would be difficult to train.

"Not too close, little one," she warned as Elfwine tried to follow the Rider. "You would not want to get in the way of that stallion, would you?"

Elfwine's response was to laugh in the face of danger, still tugging her in the direction of the horse. Gúthwyn indulged him for a few more steps before deciding that it would be best to set his sights elsewhere, and whirled him around until he could see a group of children playing with small, wooden swords. Despite not being able to watch the horse anymore, Elfwine enjoyed the ride considerably and was even more pleased to see someone close to his own age.

"Play?" he asked innocently, peering up at her.

"Not yet," Gúthwyn replied, "but when you are older you shall learn how to wield a blade—then, you may join them. Until then, you must tolerate my company."

Elfwine seemed content with this. At any rate, he was soon distracted by a butterfly, and twisted in her arms as he tried to follow its movements through the air. Gúthwyn was forced to turn around in order to keep up with him, and when she did so she caught sight of Cobryn sitting on the steps of the Golden Hall. Her heart clenched to see the grim expression he bore, his eyes narrowed at the small knife he was twirling in his hand. His concentration was such that he did not see her.

"Do you want to visit Cobryn, little one?" Gúthwyn asked Elfwine. "Your aunt has some explaining to do."

"Coh-bin?" Elfwine questioned, looking puzzled.

"My friend," Gúthwyn elucidated, praying that he still wanted to be after what she had said to him last night. While she had been annoyed with him for his lack of sympathy, she should not have been so harsh on him. He had always done his best to guard her interests, standing up for her against Éomer in the marriage debates when no one else would. It was he whom she turned to whenever her nightmares were at their worst, not once complaining no matter the hour she roused him at.

And what had she ever done for him in return? Next to nothing—all he had to show for her friendship was a permanent limp and a position in Éomer's household. He could have easily lived out his days never having known her, whereas she could not even begin to contemplate what it would be like to not be able to rely on his counsel. Yet instead of being rewarded properly for his unswerving loyalty, she had yelled at him and insulted him when he had offered her sound advice.

Hoping he was not too angry with her, although she certainly deserved it, Gúthwyn glanced down at Elfwine and wondered if he would object to her carrying him. He likely would, as he took immense pride in his ability to walk, even though he had to rely on someone's support for distances of more than twenty feet. His position would only be strengthened by his stubbornness, reminiscent of Haiweth's personality when she was younger.

"Come, let us try some more walking," she coaxed her nephew, surreptitiously guiding him in the direction of the stairs. Elfwine liked to choose his own course, but if she moved subtly enough she would be able to steer him without much difficulty. This time she was successful, as the baby was more than content to seek the challenge of the stairs. Gúthwyn was fully prepared to have to carry him up, though she saw no reason to tell him that.

Slowly but surely they made their way towards the stairs, Gúthwyn keeping half an eye on Cobryn in case her friend decided to leave while she was engrossed by ensuring her nephew's safety. It took a surprisingly long time for him to notice her; he clearly had been absorbed by his thoughts. Yet when he at last did see her, she was stunned to see the hurt that crossed briefly over his face before it resumed a neutral—if somewhat stern—expression.

"Cobryn?" she called out tentatively, Elfwine placing his first foot on the stairs. This could take all week, if he was intent on doing all the work himself.

Without a word her friend rose. Sheathing his knife, he inclined his head indifferently and headed for the doors.

"Cobryn, wait!" she exclaimed. A quick apology to Elfwine later and she had scooped her brother's son up, hastily mounting the steps two at a time before the guards could let the advisor in. Elfwine cried out angrily, but once she had reached the landing she lowered him to the ground and quelled most of his protests.

Ceorl and Eanwulf were about to pull open the doors when she held out her hand and said, "Keep them closed."

Surprised, they looked at her for a moment until she repeated her command. Exchanging glances amongst themselves, they complied, causing Cobryn's lips to thin and a muscle in his jaw to twitch.

Regardless of what his body was saying, her friend's voice was calm as he folded his arms across his chest and asked, "What do you want?"

"I wanted to… to apologize," Gúthwyn explained, hoisting Elfwine up and settling him on her hip when he showed signs of wandering off.

"No!" Elfwine shrieked, pushing at her face.

Almost automatically, Gúthwyn handed him a lock of her hair, and he was quiet.

"Why?" Cobryn asked, his eyes narrowed.

Gúthwyn swallowed, not used to seeing him this angry with her. "I-I should not have said what I did," she began, stumbling over her words. "I was wrong to treat you so horribly."

Cobryn sighed, seemingly unable to come up with a reply.

"Cobryn, please," she said softly. "I am sorry for all that I said, I was not thinking…"

Her voice trailed off into an awkward silence, and she became painfully aware that the guards were watching them. While they did not understand the Common Tongue as well as Cobryn knew their native language, they still got the gist—and it certainly did not take much intelligence to figure out that the relations between her and her friend were terse and strained.

When nearly a full minute had passed without Cobryn giving any sort of reply, and the baby in her arms starting to fidget, Gúthwyn reached out and took his hand. He made to pull away, but she tightened her grip. "Cobryn, please," she repeated, her voice barely above a supplicant whisper. "I do not want our friendship to suffer because of my stupidity."

"You were not being foolish," Cobryn finally said, sighing again, glancing around them. "I am not going to pretend that I regret what I told you—you do need to be careful, even moreso that Elphir is here. But you had every right to be angry with me."

"Y-You forgive me, then?" Gúthwyn asked, holding her breath.

"There is nothing to forgive," was his response.

A wide grin spread across her face. "Thank the Valar," she breathed, her good mood spreading to Elfwine, who began babbling animatedly in an odd mix of languages. "I am so glad—"

With a loud _creak_, the doors of Meduseld swung open.

"Brother, I am sure she is not—"

Both parties, the second of which consisted of Elphir and Amrothos, froze as they abruptly came face-to-face. Amrothos stopped mid-sentence, his mouth slowly closing as he assessed the situation. Even Elfwine was quiet, staring apprehensively at his uncles. Gúthwyn felt Cobryn draw his hand out of her loosened hold, but it was too late: Elphir's eyes had darted between them the instant he realized who they were, and the disgusted expression within their depths told her all that she needed to know.

"If you will excuse me," he said harshly, and strode past them. To Gúthwyn, it was as if the temperature had suddenly plummeted to levels comparable with the climate of Caradhras, the snowy mountain the Fellowship had failed to pass over before ultimately making the fatal decision to go through the Mines of Moria.

"Elphir…" she began, but the prince who had once wanted to marry her was gone, his forbidding stature cutting through the road.

"Excellent job," Amrothos said sarcastically, giving her a look that said volumes more than his words did. "Brilliant, actually, how you managed that."

"Stop it!" Gúthwyn hissed, causing Elfwine's bottom lip to tremble.

"I was under the impression that you were both reasonably intelligent," Amrothos scowled, casting a dark look at Cobryn, "but clearly I was wrong."

Cobryn appeared as though he had half a mind to retort—his tongue would have likely given the prince a well-deserved lashing—yet knowing the difference between their positions, he remained silent. It was left to Gúthwyn to defend them.

"We were doing nothing wrong," she informed Amrothos.

He arched an eyebrow. "As you wish," he replied, and without another word he followed his brother, walking down the steps and soon disappearing into the crowd. Gúthwyn saw with a sinking heart that they were being watched by several of the Eorlingas—who had seen what, and how had they interpreted it? Was there anyone from Dol Amroth who could now spread vicious gossip about her being seen holding the hand of someone she was not contemplating marrying?

_Do not be ridiculous,_ she thought to herself, glancing sheepishly at Cobryn and shrugging in a silent apology. _You held Tun's hand often enough._

But that was not the same. Everyone had thought that a wedding between them was imminent, secure in the knowledge that a champion loved his lady and would have fought against the Valar themselves for her happiness. To be caught in such a scenario with Cobryn was another matter entirely, especially since her negotiations with Elphir had been so recently broken off.

"That went well," her friend now muttered.

Gúthwyn sighed. "You know the nobility. There is a scandal if one so much as wears the wrong ribbons."

"And unfortunately, we have just done something far worse than erring in our fashions," Cobryn said grimly. "We have given them justification."

"Justification?" Gúthwyn echoed, puzzled. Elfwine yanked at her hair and frowned, obviously not partial to the term.

"It will only be a matter of hours before that entire delegation knows Elphir saw us holding hands," Cobryn pointed out. "Since we have just insulted their prince, they now have reason to be ill-disposed—not just to you, but to myself as well. In fact, it will practically be their duty."

Gúthwyn shrugged. "They already hate me," she replied. "Beyond the fact that I am no longer the only one, I see no difference."

"Because, unlike your attire and manners, which no one would dare comment on in front of Éomer, your brother will definitely be inquiring as to why we were in this situation—and it may very well spoil the visit for a number of people."

Laughing, Gúthwyn replied, "You jest. They might gossip about it, but I am sure that if I just avoid you for a day or so it will blow over."

"Gúthwyn, the two of us were holding hands," Cobryn said, his voice unusually hard. "Do you think Elphir is going to forget that so quickly?"

He had her there. How would she have reacted if she had seen Borogor in a similar position with another woman? Her insides churned at the thought.

_Elphir's love for me is, or was, nothing compared to what I have for Borogor,_ she reminded herself. _The friendship between Cobryn and I is completely innocent—anyone with a shred of common sense would see that._

If only she could speak to Elphir, then everything might be assuaged. But quite frankly, she had given up any direct approaches. Asking for a moment of his time was useless; he was clearly bent on avoiding her, and she would make no headway in that direction. If Amrothos devised a better plan than that horrid dress, she would have no choice but to take him up on his offer.

"Gúthy!" Elfwine screeched, clamoring for her attention.

"Yes, little one?" Gúthwyn inquired.

"Effir!"

"Unfortunately for you, that is not going to be happening anytime soon," she muttered. "And not at all, if he can help it."

Elfwine stuck his tongue out at her.

* * *

Word spread like a raging fire throughout the city that Lady Gúthwyn and Cobryn, advisor to the king, had been seen holding hands. If Gúthwyn had harbored any assumptions about the incident blowing over, she could not have been more wrong. It was all the maids could talk about. Mildwen informed her that nearly everyone agreed that the two of them must have been having an affair for months, especially since he was permitted to go into her chambers so often. 

When news of _that_ reached the Dol Amroth delegation, there was an explosion of gossip and malicious rumors. Hoping to seek refuge from it all, Gúthwyn went to the training grounds, but once she arrived there the nobles and lords abruptly ended their matches and walked away, refusing to be in the presence of a "wanton harlot." To make matters worse, Éomer had come in the middle of her practice and escorted her back into the Golden Hall, his face unusually stern.

"Brother, I swear, it was nothing!" she now protested, her hands gripping the top of her desk chair in frustration. "Cobryn and I are friends, you know this!"

Éomer exhaled, clearly restraining his temper. "You were holding his hand in front of what must have been the entire city, based on how many people I have heard talking about it! Do you not think that you might have used better judgment?"

"I was apologizing to him!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, her knuckles turning white.

Éomer's eyes narrowed. "And you thought that cause for such intimate contact?"

"It was not intimate!" she cried, glaring at him. "Why can no one see that?"

"Sister, calm yourself," Éomer replied, despite the fact that he, too, was struggling to do so. "Listen to me. I am fully aware that you and Cobryn are friends, but that is not the case with our guests! By your actions, innocent though they may have been, you have just insulted Prince Elphir, not to mention his father!"

"As if you care about Elphir's feelings," Gúthwyn snapped. "You can barely stand to look at him!"

"That is not the point," Éomer ground out. "It casts a poor light on you, myself, and our people if your behavior is seen as anything less than appropriate. You have been treading thin ice ever since the beginning of their visit, and I am partly to blame for it. Rest assured that these events will not repeat themselves."

"I will not hold Cobryn's hand again, if that is what you mean," Gúthwyn answered irritably.

"You are also not to set foot on the training grounds until Imrahil and his people have left Edoras," Éomer informed her.

Gúthwyn's mouth dropped open. "You are not serious," she at last said, after a long silence had passed.

Éomer nodded grimly. "I have overheard several complaints from the men that they will not spar in your presence, and thus have not been able to practice for the upcoming tournament. As a host, it is my duty to ensure that their comfort takes precedence over our own. Since you are not going to be participating in the games, you can wait until the month is out."

Hundreds of outbursts formed within Gúthwyn's mind, each of them more childish than the last. She could only gape at Éomer in horror, unable to believe that he was doing this to her.

"What am I supposed to do, then?" she at last choked out, actually shaking in a combination of fury and the effort it was taking not to scream.

"I am sure you will be able to find something," Éomer said, not appearing the least bit apologetic about his decision. "Elfwine would love more of your company."

Gúthwyn gritted her teeth, realizing she had just been forced into a corner. She could hardly tell her brother that, while she adored his son and would do anything to make him happy, he was not a substitute for a sword—nor that it would not please her to have to endure his wife's company more often, if she were all but confined to the Golden Hall.

"Éomer," she instead appealed, "this is unreasonable! I have every right to train with the men! If the fools who call themselves nobles cannot handle my being there, then that is their own fault!"

"My word is final," Éomer replied sternly. "You may use the grounds as often as you like when the visitors have left, but until then I do not want to hear of you sparring with the other men. Do you understand?"

No scribe, no poet, not even Daeron himself could have expressed her rage adequately. Every taut muscle in her body longed to reach out and strike Éomer, knocking some sense back into the brother who had once defended her against her accusers. Now there was nothing to set him apart from the lords who frowned down upon her behavior, the men who thought that the only sharp object a woman could be entrusted to was a needle.

"Do you understand?" Éomer repeated, when she showed no signs of acquiescing.

"Yes," Gúthwyn muttered sullenly, loathing him with every fiber of her being.

"Excellent," he said briskly, and then glanced at the leggings and tunic she was still wearing. "Also, I am trusting that you will garb yourself in decent clothes throughout the duration of their stay—which means dressing less like a peasant and more like someone of your status."

Gúthwyn could not believe that she was hearing these words coming from her brother's mouth. "Are there any other chains you would like to clap on me?" she demanded. "For if not, I would appreciate some privacy!"

"That is all at the moment," Éomer said, narrowing his eyes at her pertness. "Do not give me cause to have another discussion similar to this again."

In response, Gúthwyn turned her back on him.

_That went well,_ Éomer thought sarcastically a few seconds later, closing the door on his sister. He should have known better than to think that he might placate her into agreeing to his conditions without fuss. However, Lothíriel was right—he was more than tolerant of her habits, but their guests took offense at them and something had to be done.

Even now, he was not entirely sure that banning her from the training grounds was such a good idea. Yes, it would likely end a great amount of gossip concerning Gúthwyn's behavior around his soldiers, and the Dol Amroth nobles would be mollified enough to practice, but he knew it would cost his baby sister. Aside from riding and watching over Elfwine, wielding a sword was her favorite thing to do. Forcing her to sacrifice it, all for the sake of the guests who gossiped relentlessly about her behind her back, was hardly a fair bargain.

_It cannot be helped,_ he told himself. Lothíriel's suggestion had been logical, and he had acted on it. He could not repeal the decree, especially when allowing Gúthwyn's training to continue was risking a scandal. Between her habits and the inconvenient positions she had been seen in, he could hardly blame the Dol Amroth delegation for being appalled by her behavior. Hopefully this would curb the worst of the backlash.

His mind drifted back to the incident earlier this afternoon. As much as he loved his sister, he found himself wishing that she would start displaying more common sense. When he had confronted Cobryn about the rumors, the advisor told him that she had taken his hand in a desperate appeal for his forgiveness—it was something she would have done under any circumstance, but did she have to do it in front of Elphir? In front of the entire city, half of whom probably already suspected her to be having an affair with Cobryn? His own men refused to believe such nonsense, yet Lothíriel had confessed that speculation on the matter was rampant among the commoners, despite her best efforts to quell it.

_Gúthwyn,_ he thought, shaking his head, _you need to learn the ways of the court._

Perhaps one day he would take her back to Gondor, so that she might learn the proper rules of etiquette. Her presence would not be pleasing to a number of the nobles, among whom it was the general consensus that she had given birth to two children out of wedlock, but it would do her good to observe how others navigated the social circles in which she floundered. The women in Minas Tirith were not nearly as catty as they were in Dol Amroth, and with the favor of King Elessar no one would dare mock her for her mistakes.

He sighed. That was a matter for another day. Right now, he had to ensure that she survived the rest of the month. Based on what he had already seen, achieving that goal was swiftly turning into one of the more difficult tasks of his kingship. Even Helm's Deep seemed to pale in comparison to the feat of refining his sister. Upon his _éored's_ arrival with Gandalf, the battle had been won within minutes.

Unfortunately, it would take far more than a wizard and a couple of thousand Eorlingas to make Gúthwyn a proper lady.


	89. Trout For Lunch

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Eighty-Nine:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Eighty-Nine**

The morning after her argument with Éomer, Gúthwyn was solely tempted to remain in her chambers and refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing her attempts to entertain herself without a visit to the training grounds, but such was not her fate. She was roused at an unfortunately early hour by her maids and given, much to her surprise, a deep blue gown that somehow created the illusion of her having curves.

"What is this for?" she asked Elflede, unable to resist spinning around to see how it looked. She was still furious with Éomer, but she had not expected him to apologize in this manner.

"The king wishes for you to dine with him this afternoon," Elflede explained, admiring the fit of the dress.

Gúthwyn frowned. "Why?" After last night, she could not imagine him wanting to have anything to do with her, much less risk her causing another scene in front of his precious guests.

Elflede shrugged uneasily. Like everyone else in the city, she too had heard of the incident between her lady and the king's advisor, but unlike most she had the tact not to mention it. "Prince Imrahil and Prince Legolas are to be there, as well."

"What of Imrahil's sons?" Gúthwyn asked, puzzled enough to forget her fear of the Elf. She did not understand why her brother desired her to eat in the company of Dol Amroth's ruler, especially when she had insulted the man's people on a number of occasions—his son only the latest to be slighted.

"Nay, not them," Elflede replied.

"They are to remain with the other nobles, my lady," piped up Mildwen, who had been organizing Gúthwyn's wardrobe until now.

Éomund's daughter mulled this information over. Just last night, Éomer had forbidden her to spar with the men; today, he specifically requested her presence at his table, and sent the invitation in the form of a dress? He was hardly commanding her—she could easily ignore the summons—but the outfit made it exceedingly difficult to do anything other than follow his instructions.

"Shall I do your hair, my lady?"

Gúthwyn gave herself a once-over in the mirror and finally consented, reasoning that she might as well do her best to look decent. She would only be invoking Éomer's displeasure if anything about her appearance was lackluster. After all, she did not feel particularly inclined to lose her riding privileges, or whatever else he might decide to rob her of.

That train of thought, of course, only served to remind her that she did not have a horse to ride.

"Your hair is so long," Mildwen sighed enviously as Elflede ran the brush through Gúthwyn's locks. "And so dark…"

She cast a mournful glance at her own golden tresses, although Gúthwyn did not see anything wrong with them and told her so.

"These days, it seems as if the only purpose my hair serves is to amuse Elfwine," she added, smiling at her maid. "Were it not for him, I suspect I would have chopped it off long ago."

Mildwen's eyes widened at such blasphemy.

"Done!" Elflede pronounced then, setting down the comb. "Unless you would like us to tie it up, or—"

"No, thank you," Gúthwyn replied, politely but firmly. "I do not wish to be late."

Elflede acquiesced, albeit reluctantly. One of the foremost complaints amongst the women who attended Éomund's daughter was almost certainly boredom—she did not request assistance bathing, getting dressed, selecting outfits, or even cleaning up after herself. Her wardrobe was bland, she had no jewels to choose from, and she could care less about how her hair looked. It was enough to frustrate any maid.

Luckily, Mildwen at least did not seem to mind too much. "Good luck, my lady," she murmured as Gúthwyn took one last glance into the mirror.

Thanking her, Gúthwyn inhaled and left her room, wondering what to expect from her brother. She could not think of a single reason why he would want to invite her to his afternoon meal, especially since Prince Imrahil would be there. It was not as if she considered herself an expert on the ways of society, but it was hardly the work of a wizard to deduce that conversing with Elphir's father would be awkward at best.

She did not have much time to prepare herself, however. Before she had even entered the hall, an unwelcome sight was ready to greet her: Nethiel.

"Lothíriel sent me to inform you of your duties," the woman announced, her voice far too haughty for someone of her station. "According to King Éomer, you are to serve the men their wine. The pitcher is already on the table. Before you pour their drinks, you are to curtsy to each of them—your brother first, then Imrahil, then Legolas. After you have finished, you may then sit down, and the king wants you to eat a proper meal. You are to be on your utmost best behavior at all times, and once Legolas has left you are to apologize to Imrahil for what happened yesterday."

Gúthwyn blinked, not having anticipated this turn of events. "What?"

Nethiel rolled her eyes. "You are serving Imrahil so at least someone has the illusion of you being obedient," she said coldly. "It is not that difficult to grasp."

"I would suggest watching your mouth," Gúthwyn spat, "lest all of my pent-up energy from not being able to train finds its way to my fists."

Even though she did not seriously intend to punch the insolent maid, the threat was enough: despite her best attempts to remain nonchalant, Nethiel blanched, and accidentally took a step backwards.

"Thank you for being so kind as to instruct me," Gúthwyn finished icily, having no desire to tolerate Lothíriel's servant for an extended period of time. "Your services are no longer required."

With that dismissal she swept away from the maid, slowing down her steps when she came into the throne room. To her surprise, Éomer, Imrahil, and Legolas were not the only ones at the table. Lothíriel was also seated, her right hand under the table where it was presumably holding Éomer's. Gúthwyn could not help but feel a twinge of nervousness when all four of them looked up and saw her.

Even as she drew closer, it was difficult to fathom Imrahil's expression. There simply was none to analyze: he inclined his head politely in her direction, but other than that did not show any emotion. Legolas offered her a smile, yet the rest of her reception was quite chilly. Lothíriel, of course, would no sooner welcome her presence than she would a commoner's, and by the slanting of Éomer's eyebrows Gúthwyn knew that he remembered all too well the events of yesterday.

"Good afternoon, brother," Gúthwyn murmured when she reached the table. Recalling her manners, she dropped into a curtsy, unsure of how low the gesture was supposed to be. Éomer did not frown at her, which gave her enough confidence to turn to Prince Imrahil. "My lord," she said, repeating the curtsy.

"Lady Gúthwyn," Imrahil acknowledged, his shrewd eyes meeting hers. Rather than look away as though guilty, Éomund's daughter held the gaze. She knew she had passed a test when he nodded at her, though she had no idea why or even what he had been trying to determine in the first place.

That left one more guest. Swallowing, Gúthwyn looked at Legolas, willing herself to remain calm. She was startled to find that it was not as difficult as she had imagined it to be. "My lord," she spoke, curtsying a third time.

"Lady Gúthwyn," he replied, on a rare occasion addressing her by her title. She had a feeling that the formality of the event was responsible for this change, as normally he would have called her just by her first name.

Lothíriel, sitting serenely to Éomer's right, was now the only one whom she had not recognized. Was she expected to curtsy to the woman, as well? The last thing she wanted to do was show deference to the person who had gone out of her way to spread rumors about her—and she suspected that her queen was fully aware of the sentiment. She could not ignore Éomer's wife, but what was she supposed to say? "My lady" seemed too casual, yet "your majesty" sounded too formal. Was plain "Lothíriel" allowed?

"My lady," she finally settled on, throwing in a fourth curtsy for good measure. It vexed her to have to submit to the queen in this manner, and her insides boiled when she saw the tiniest of smirks upon the other woman's face, but she had no other alternative. Éomer smiled at her when she straightened, the only gratification she would receive for performing such a loathsome exercise.

There was an empty chair next to Legolas and across from Imrahil, though when Lothíriel's gaze darted to the pitcher Gúthwyn knew that she would not be assuming her position anytime soon. Repressing the urge to sigh, still irritated that she had suddenly been relegated to a server, Éomund's daughter took the decanter and began filling the glasses in the order she had greeted their owners.

"I trust the tournament preparations are coming along well?" Imrahil inquired as she poured wine into Éomer's cup, doing her best not to spill.

"Excellently, as a matter of fact," her brother replied, grinning at Lothíriel. "We decided to have the sword-fighting as a blind contest."

"Ah," Imrahil said, and when Gúthwyn glanced at him she saw that his eyes were sparkling. "My favorite."

"Blind contest?" Gúthwyn longed to ask, but did not dare do so. She was having enough trouble concentrating on Imrahil's mug.

It seemed that Legolas did not recognize the term, either, for he leaned over slightly and questioned, "What do you mean by that?"

"Oftentimes when two realms compete together at a tournament, the final event—the sword-fighting—is done so that each warrior's face must be completely covered by a helmet," Imrahil explained. "In other words, no one knows who is fighting whom until the winner reveals himself and unmasks his opponent. It is often not difficult to discern most of the men, but there have been several surprises in the past."

"So what you are saying," Legolas began, still looking somewhat puzzled, "is that each fighter is to wear a helmet so that their identities are concealed from the crowd?"

As Gúthwyn walked around the table to pour wine for the Elf, she could not help but listen more intently. Did one have to show themselves at the end of a match?

"Precisely," Imrahil confirmed. "It is an excellent method to keep the crowd interested. Normally, most of the ladies will grow weary of the fighting after a few rounds, especially if their champion is no longer in contention. This way, they can enjoy themselves speculating about whom the combatants might be. It also serves as a challenge for the men, who might be unused to such constraints."

"And only the participants in the final round are shown?" Legolas inquired, his bewilderment giving way to interest. Unbeknownst to him and his fellow diners, such emotions were matched readily by Éomund's daughter.

"Yes." Éomer took over the explanation, anticipation written across his face. Gúthwyn wondered if he would be competing, knowing that her brother could fain resist such an activity. "At that point, it is usually easy to figure out who is left—but as Imrahil mentioned, there have been some unforeseen endings."

Gúthwyn had to yank the pitcher up quickly in order to avoid overflowing Lothíriel's cup. The queen gave her a warning look and leaned forward. Éomer and Imrahil's discussion faded into the background as Gúthwyn saw a flash of white, which then disappeared as the other woman slipped it into the folds of her gown.

"What—" Éomund's daughter began quietly, but one glare from Lothíriel and she was silenced. The queen tilted her head in the direction of the empty chair, indicating that she was to take a seat.

Leaving the decanter where it was, Gúthwyn walked back around the table, trying to imagine what might be in the note that Lothíriel had given her. Was it criticism for the situation with Cobryn and Elphir? A threat, perhaps, or even blackmail of some sort? The queen knew she was not a virgin—would that be used against her? But what could she possibly give Lothíriel in return for feigned ignorance?

She was so preoccupied that she was not aware Legolas had risen until he said, "Please, let me."

Starting, Gúthwyn saw that he intended to pull her chair out for her. "Thank you," she responded, still thinking about what Lothíriel had just done. She even forgot to be nervous as she lowered herself down and allowed him to bring her closer to the table, something that she did not realize until a few minutes later.

Once she had taken her place, servants approached and set down several dishes, one of which had a noxious odor that made Gúthwyn feel faint. It turned out to be some kind of fish. Unfortunately, the rest of the platters were just as disappointing. The only food that did not have meat in it was the bread, which she gladly reached for. She had not consumed venison since her rancid supply from Mordor ran out, and she did not intend to ever again.

A sharp glance from Éomer reminded her of Nethiel's instructions, but at that point she could have cared less. _If you wanted me to eat, brother,_ she thought scathingly, _you should have prepared something that would not make me sick._

When she remembered to pay heed to the conversation again, she found that Éomer, Imrahil, and Lothíriel were discussing the feast and ball that were to follow the tournament. Gúthwyn did not particularly care for this subject, suspecting that such an activity would only provide more opportunities for self-humiliation, and when she chanced a sidelong look at Legolas she thought she could detect the same disinterest.

"How are you enjoying your visit?" she was surprised to hear herself ask him.

He seemed equally unprepared for her inquiry. "Very well, thank you," he replied when he had recovered.

Gúthwyn dared to smile at him, inviting him to say more, and after a few seconds he continued, "When did you expand the archery range?"

Her mind went blank for a moment, until she recalled the reason why Éomer had added more targets. "Recently. Éomer wished for all the men—and Elves—to be able to train side by side. I have not been there lately; is there room enough for everyone?"

"Yes, there is," Legolas confirmed. "Your people have great skill, especially the Marshal Elfhelm."

Gúthwyn beamed at this praise, glad that her friend's performance was capable of standing out to an Elf. "May I let him know of this compliment?"

"You may."

There was a brief silence, in which Gúthwyn heard Lothíriel's voice murmur the phrase, "Lady Míriel has much to learn about decorum."

_And so the cat belittles one of her own,_ Gúthwyn thought.

Speaking nothing of her malicious observation, Éomund's daughter questioned Legolas, "Do you intend to compete in the tournament?"

He hesitated. "As overconfident as it may seem, I do not wish to rob any man of a prize. I have an unfair amount of experience."

"But everyone is expecting you to compete," Gúthwyn protested, thinking of the maids who giggled whenever the prince so much as turned in their direction. "I am sure they would not mind, if they could see your skill."

She was not flattering him—Haldor aside, he truly was the greatest archer she had ever seen. Every movement he made with a bow came as natural to him as walking. Despite her inclination to begrudge him any sort of recognition, she would be a fool to deny his prowess. The crowd, she knew, would have no inhibitions about him or the other Elves joining the competition, so long as they brought excitement to the games.

Legolas watched her for a moment, his gaze not penetrating but the merest hint of pressure cutting her to the core. He may only have been weighing her words, yet she was not prepared for such direct eye contact and soon had to look away.

"Perhaps one contest, then," she heard him say, and lifted her head to see a small grin flit across his face. "I cannot resist a challenge."

"I am sure," Gúthwyn responded dryly. "At least one of us is allowed to do as we please."

The last statement was spoken softly, more to herself than to Legolas, but the prince frowned slightly. "Do you wish to enter, as well?"

After checking to ensure that Éomer was still engrossed by his conversation, she nodded emphatically. "I do," she answered. "And I would, were I permitted. If Éowyn could defeat a Nazgûl, I can certainly handle a few men."

Legolas raised an eyebrow.

"You do not believe so?" Gúthwyn asked defensively, somewhat stung. "You have seen me fight before."

"I do not doubt that you are capable of winning," Legolas said, appearing to be holding back a smile, "but you might anger some of the visitors."

Gúthwyn scoffed. "I could care less what they think."

"Also," Legolas continued in a dramatic whisper, more quietly this time, "it might cause a scandal if the king's sister were to defeat Dol Amroth's finest warriors—especially if she was wearing the wrong tunic for the occasion."

She could not help but giggle at this, knowing now that his regard for her brother's visitors was very similar to her own.

Unfortunately, her mirth attracted Éomer's attention, and he said loudly enough to draw the others', "What amuses you so, sister?"

Gúthwyn fought to keep a straight face, secretly exhilarated by what Legolas had informed her under her brother's very nose, and responded, "We were discussing the upcoming tournament, my lord."

Éomer's dark eyes held hers, narrowing almost imperceptibly. She could tell what he was thinking: _remember my warning._ Aloud, he asked only, "The archery contests, perhaps?" He inclined his head towards Legolas.

"Yes, of course," Gúthwyn played along, glancing for but a second at the Elf. "I was about to say that I am greatly anticipating being able to watch the feats of his people."

"As am I." Momentarily distracted from his younger sister's waywardness, Éomer turned to Legolas. "Are we to have the honor of the Elves joining us?"

"I have just promised Gúthwyn that we would," Legolas replied, smiling. "I am looking forward to it."

Imrahil chuckled. "Well, since it seems my people are to be outdone in both archery and equestrianism, we shall have to see what happens when we set our hands to the sword!"

Gúthwyn privately doubted that the men of Dol Amroth would be able to hold their own against the Rohirrim—unless one of the princes decided to fight—but she had embarrassed herself in front of Imrahil enough and held her tongue.

"Do not worry, friend," Éomer said, grinning. "They might have a chance. Lothíriel and I have determined that the Eorlingas shall fight amongst themselves to determine a champion, while your people will do the same. The two victors will then duel each other… but alas, there is only so much hope I can give you."

"Confident words, coming from a man with half of my years," Imrahil retorted, though there was a general round of laughter at their bantering. "I daresay you will find that we are more than capable of trouncing your champion."

"We shall see," Éomer answered smoothly. "We shall see."

"Gúthwyn," Lothíriel said then, her voice quiet but somehow managing to rise above all the others', "is the food not to your liking?"

Éomer's head swiveled in her direction, and Gúthwyn's cheeks burned as his eyes took in the fact that she had barely consumed half of her bread and had nothing else on her plate.

"N-Not at all," she stammered, mortified under the gazes of Prince Imrahil and his horrible daughter. "I-I was just listening to the conversation, and I forgot."

Everything about Éomer's expression betrayed his disbelief and anger. Lothíriel's was far more collected as she said cheerfully, "We would not want to starve you! Please, try some of the trout. It is quite good, and I can assure you that our cooks have done their best to weaken the smell."

It was a deliberate shot. The very dish Gúthwyn had publicly insulted was pushed in her direction by a slender, pale hand; Éomund's daughter was forced to restrain herself from gagging. The stench was awful, making her want to vomit. She knew that she would be sick, were she to eat it. Her stomach was twisting even as she imagined sinking her teeth into the pale flesh—she would have to swallow the metallic grey skin, allow the clumps of meat and sinew to slide down her throat.

Her hatred of Lothíriel reached unknown bounds. Hoping that none of it showed in her face, she said in a tone that rivaled her queen's, "I am sure it will be excellent."

For half a second, she thought she saw a look of surprise pass over the other woman, but just as quickly as it had come it was gone. Beneath Éomer's approving gaze, Gúthwyn served herself a piece of the abominable fish, making it as small as she reasonably could without insulting Imrahil. Were he not in the room, she would have flat-out refused. Instead, she cut a bite-sized amount and lifted it to her mouth, praying that someone would start a conversation so that she would not be under everyone's surveillance.

She had no such luck. Her teeth closed around the trout and she almost threw up right then and there, yet since the others were watching her she had to fight a battle of epic proportions to keep herself from grimacing. Evidently, she succeeded: Éomer visibly relaxed, and then turning to Imrahil inquired about the prince's plans for the rest of the day. Gradually, the attention shifted from Éomund's daughter, but the way Lothíriel's eyes constantly flicked back to her was a painful warning that she was not off the hook.

Memories of Haldor staring at her while she finished the disgusting meat resurfaced as she steeled herself to swallow the trout. For a moment, it stuck in her throat and she could not breathe—golden hair flashed before her eyes as she panicked, the serpents of nausea in her stomach rearing their ugly heads when she remembered having to eat her own vomit. _For Hammel and Haiweth,_ she found herself thinking when at long last the fish dislodged itself.

An instant later, she felt her body violently reacting to the loathsome substance. Her abdomen tightened and her throat closed, making it almost impossible to draw air. She tried not to wince as her head began pounding, but the faintly amused looks she was receiving from Lothíriel—despite the queen's seeming absorption with whatever Éomer was saying—told her that she was failing miserably.

Abhorring her brother's wife, knowing that if she excused herself so that she might be sick in peace she would be letting the woman triumph in her cruelty, Gúthwyn ordered herself to remain calm. She slowly abandoned the trout and reached for the bread, praying that it would calm her revolting stomach. Unfortunately, she was wrong. Each bite she took increased her queasiness tenfold.

"What do you think of the dish?" Lothíriel inquired of her just then, as Éomer and Imrahil's discussion reached a lull.

Gúthwyn would have loved to toss it in the queen's face, but such a childish urge could not be fulfilled. "I am afraid I am not used to it," she said carefully, and then smiled at Prince Imrahil. "I do not doubt that it is excellent. I simply have to grow accustomed to the taste… and the smell."

The last part she added in a gamble that it would appeal to the ruler of Dol Amroth's humor, and it worked: Imrahil chuckled, responding, "Yes, that is a common remark amongst our visitors—and that is before we have served them dessert!"

Gúthwyn did not dare ask what said dessert was. Instead she grinned weakly, growing more nauseous by the second. She did not want to give in and let Lothíriel know her weakness, but it would be a thousand times worse to retch in front of their guests. And she knew she would have to throw up eventually; it was only a matter of how long she could hold it.

To her surprise, she managed to last another ten minutes, although had someone asked her she would not have been able to recount a word of the discussions that occurred during that time period. To her credit, she managed to disguise all of her condition, so that even someone like Lothíriel would not have been able to detect it. Despite this success, all she could think about was how disgusting the trout had tasted and how much she desired to expel it from her body. When at length she felt she could no longer contain the bile, she cleared her throat.

"Pray excuse me for a moment, brother," she said quietly to Éomer.

"Is something wrong?" he asked her, narrowing his eyes.

"Not at all," she replied, risking a glance at Lothíriel. It was difficult to tell what the queen's thoughts were, though she would wager that the woman could see right through her lie. "I just remembered that I forgot to blow out a candle—and it was rather close to the edge of my nightstand."

She adorned a pained expression and Éomer had no choice but to let her go. The excuse had been rather feeble, yet at least it had worked. As for Lothíriel, Gúthwyn allowed her hand to drift to her pocket while she walked away, her fingers touching the folded-up note that now lay amidst the folds of the fabric. She even took it out right before she entered the passage leading to her quarters, knowing fully well that the other woman would be the only one watching her. Let her brother's wife think she could not stifle her curiosity. As long as the queen did not attribute it to the trout, Gúthwyn did not frankly care what pretext she bought.

When she had enclosed herself within the safety of her room, she all but ran for the chamber pot. Her knees groaned in protest as she sank to the ground and hunched over the container, but she ignored them as vomit spewed from her mouth.

"Never again," she muttered weakly when she had finished, her nausea giving way to feelings of acute embarrassment. Lothíriel was probably beside herself with laughter, triumphant in the knowledge that she had succeeded in cutting Éomund's daughter down a notch. Gúthwyn was not entirely sure if the queen was aware that she became sick whenever she ate meat, but she had certainly known that she loathed it, and had likely taken no small amount of pleasure in her discomfort.

At the memory of eating the trout, Gúthwyn's stomach turned and she threw up again, but this time she felt much better upon finishing. Taking a washcloth from a nearby pitcher, she scrubbed her face until there was no sign that she had just regurgitated her entire lunch. She was about to leave her chambers when she recalled Lothíriel's note. Halting her stride, she withdrew it from her gown, smoothed it out, and read:

_Éomer wishes you to select a new horse from the stables today. I will meet you there half an hour after lunch—do not keep me waiting. There is something I must discuss with you. _

_P.S. It would do you well not to insult my father's cooks._


	90. Sceoh

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ninety:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Ninety**

After Gúthwyn returned to the table, she displeased Éomer greatly by refusing to eat anymore food. Although she pleaded a full stomach, and had carefully rid herself of all traces of vomit, her brother clearly did not believe her. Luckily, he was not willing to create a scene—and since Lothíriel was secure in the knowledge that she had succeeded in making Gúthwyn thoroughly miserable, the matter went unchallenged.

In an effort to avoid the queen as much as possible, Éomund's daughter spent the rest of the meal talking to Legolas. Quite frankly, she was astonished that she could speak with him so easily. None of the topics they touched upon were sensitive; it was all light conversation, nothing that required her to conceal her emotions or banish any unpleasant memories. Much of their discussion, naturally, revolved around the tournament.

Whenever this subject came up, she was rewarded with a stern look from Éomer, but there was hardly anything he could do about it. The rest of the meal passed without incident, and ended agreeably on most sides. Imrahil certainly seemed to have enjoyed himself, which Gúthwyn suspected had been the point of the entire exercise. She still could not discern whether or not he thought her to blame for the incident with Cobryn, yet if he did he was hiding it remarkably well.

As Nethiel had predicted, Legolas was the first to leave. Gúthwyn was unexpectedly sorry to see him go. She had essentially been using him to escape the necessity of talking to Lothíriel, but the more she spoke with him the more she was able to separate his character from Haldor's. There were whole other sides to him that were hinted at during their conversations, ones that were nothing like the cruel Elf who had tortured her for three years.

She did not have time to dwell upon this before Éomer suggested to Lothíriel that they go on a walk, shooting a significant glance at Gúthwyn as he did so. The meaning was obvious: reconcile with Imrahil.

"My lord," Gúthwyn murmured to the prince as her brother and his wife left. When the older man's gaze fixed on her, she cleared her throat before continuing. "I-I wanted to… to apologize for what happened yesterday."

Imrahil merely looked at her, causing her cheeks to turn pink. "C-Cobryn and I are friends," she explained, stammering under his shrewd gaze. "I never intended for it to be interpreted as…"

"The sooner this incident is forgotten, I suspect the better we shall be for it," Imrahil replied evenly.

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to respond and closed it, feeling more and more as if she were completely missing something. Was Imrahil angry with her? He was not smiling at her, yet nor was he frowning.

Sensing her confusion, Imrahil lowered his voice and added, "I do not hold you to blame for what transpired, but I must join your friend in urging that you be more careful with yourself. My people shall not forgive your mistakes so easily."

"I—"

"Heed my words," Imrahil spoke over her stuttering, fixing her with a hard look. "They will serve you well in the future."

Horribly uncomfortable, Gúthwyn had no choice but to nod. More than anything, she wanted the Dol Amroth delegation to leave.

"O-Of course, my lord," was what she said, dipping into a curtsy.

He surveyed her for a moment and then smiled, the kind expression returning to his eyes. "Shall I tell Éomer that your apologies were most sufficient?"

Gúthwyn flushed brilliantly, knowing that she was supposed to assure the prince somehow that she had done this on her own initiative, but the look he gave her told her that any such exercise would be futile.

"Obedience is a fine quality to have," Imrahil mused, almost to himself, "yet sometimes…" His gaze fixed on hers. "Others might mistake it for weakness."

She glared at him defiantly, not liking at all what he was implying. "I am _not_ weak," she longed to declare, but held her tongue, knowing that it would seem childish.

"I have always acted upon free will," she instead spoke. "I have never considered myself a slave to others' wishes."

The response felt horribly inadequate, yet it was the best she could manage. "If you will excuse me, my lord, my presence is needed at the stables."

"Of course," Imrahil replied cordially, giving her a sweeping bow. She could discern none of his thoughts, and recognized her failure with a curtsy. As she walked away from him, her mind was turning over all that the prince had just said. It had almost seemed like a warning—but against what?

_Or is it against _who?

An image of Lothíriel floated to the surface of her mind, but just as quickly she dismissed it. She was certain that the queen would never confide in her father the story of their rivalry, which seemed to be growing every day, for to do so would risk bringing it to the attention of Éomer. Both of them were painfully conscious that this was to be avoided at all costs.

Gúthwyn knew she was going to be early for her meeting with Lothíriel, though she was not particularly inclined to look for a horse with the woman breathing down her neck. If Éomer had spoken to the stableboys, by now they should have gathered together all of the animals that were not being sold this year to Gondor—something rare in and of itself, and generally only occurring when Rohan was in dire financial straits—and put them in stalls, groomed and ready for inspection.

When she came to the stables she found that this was indeed the case, and that Breca was more than happy to recount all the necessary information about each of the mares or stallions. There were several fine mounts, their coats gleaming and their muscles perfectly formed. Gúthwyn could not help but be awed, especially after having been with Heorot in his dying days. These animals were in their prime, more than capable of bearing her without becoming fatigued.

Despite paying close attention to what Breca was saying, she did not put too much stock in his words. The bond between a Rider and their horse was not stronger if the latter was in better condition or worth more on the market; it was entirely dependent upon the communication and trust between them. Her instinct would have to guide her in this regard; she knew the payment was not an issue, especially where her brother was concerned.

"What about that one?" she asked suddenly, catching sight of a horse half-hidden in the shadows of a corner stall. "What is his name?"

Pausing in the midst of a detailed description about one of the stallion's feats in battle, Breca cast a doubtful look at the object of her inquiries. "That is the runt of the litter, my lady. We call him Sceoh."

Shy. "How is he—"

"He is also very sickly," Breca hastily interjected, lest his lady should pay any more attention to such an undesirable horse.

_Just like myself,_ Gúthwyn thought, feeling a stab of pity for the animal. "I see."

Breca continued to inform her about the other mounts, but time and time again she found her gaze being drawn to Sceoh. He stood as still as a statue, only flicking his tale once or twice. All the while his eyes followed their every movement, not once relenting in their surveillance.

A quarter of an hour later, the doors opened to reveal Lothíriel, her nostrils instinctively flaring as she entered the stables. Gúthwyn repressed the urge to sigh, but other than a mild inclination of the head she did not greet her queen. The woman barely acknowledged her. Instead she turned her attentions to Breca, asking him in halting Rohirric if he might give the two of them a moment alone. Within seconds, he had departed.

"Why here?" Gúthwyn asked the instant Breca had shut the doors, folding her arms across her chest.

"Because none of the Riders will want to go riding on a full stomach," Lothíriel answered tartly, "and Éomer suggested that you get yourself a horse."

So they were not to expect company, and her brother would have no questions as to her whereabouts. Angrily Gúthwyn turned away from the woman and pretended to observe the horses, though the only one she could see was Sceoh.

"Did you enjoy your lunch?" Lothíriel asked softly, musical laughter quivering in her mouth.

Gúthwyn refused to take the bait. "It was fine," she replied shortly, pursing her lips.

"I suppose I shall get to the reason why I am suffering your company," Lothíriel said after a brief silence.

"By all means," Gúthwyn invited her acidly, turning back to give her a hard glare. "The misery is mutual."

Lothíriel's eyes flashed. "Your behavior this week has been a disgrace," she snarled. "You could not possibly insult my family any further than you have! How dare you humiliate Elphir so publicly? Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was for him to bear witness to you holding hands with Cobryn? Or have you no sense of decency?"

"If Elphir is so _embarrassed_ by it," Gúthwyn fumed, "perhaps he should speak to me personally about his feelings, rather than use you as a messenger!"

"I am not his messenger," Lothíriel snapped. "I am here to warn you that your antics are unacceptable and on the verge of turning the rest of us—namely your brother and I, for tolerating it—into laughingstocks!"

"You are hardly the first person to tell me," Gúthwyn muttered, and walked over to one of the stalls so that she could pretend to examine the steed inside. Breca had told her his name, but she was unable to remember it through the ringing in her ears. "Is that all?"

"No," Lothíriel said, clearly irritated that her audience was not as attentive as it should have been. "Do not make the mistake of being seen in such intimate contact with another man again. I will _not_ tolerate your whorish activities while our guests are present! Do you understand me?"

"I am not a whore," Gúthwyn said defiantly, but it came out as only a whisper, one that the queen nevertheless heard. Her mocking laughter echoed throughout the stables.

"Ah, yes, I forgot, and I am secretly a peasant! Do not lie to me, _baby sister_: I know that you are no virgin, and that you spent seven years surrounded by men without any supervision. I am no fool."

Gúthwyn's face was steadily turning paler. She did not dare break her gaze from the horses, knowing that if she were to let Lothíriel see her expression it would be worse than lying down and letting the queen walk all over her.

"Thus," Lothíriel hissed, her voice alarmingly close to Gúthwyn's ear—she must have crossed the distance while Éomund's daughter was absorbed in her pretense of inspection—"if you think that I am going to step aside and let you treat my brother as if he were no better than the commoners you give yourself to, you are terribly wrong. I will be watching."

Finally regaining her composure enough to face the other woman, Gúthwyn turned around and said, "I do not fear you. I have done nothing to merit concern. Any hurt I have caused Elphir is unintentional—though I wonder that my feelings were not so important when he abandoned our correspondence!"

"My brother is a busy man," Lothíriel answered coldly. "You should be grateful that he paid as much attention to you as he did, yet that is not the point. I do not want to hear so much as a _whisper_ of your transgressions for the rest of this visit, do you understand?"

"I may be your subject," Gúthwyn said angrily, "but you will not order me around as you please!"

A cold hand gripped her shoulder, the nails digging in until she almost gasped in surprise. "Learn to obey your superiors," Lothíriel ground out, her fierce eyes just inches away from Gúthwyn's. "That is something you are good at, serving, is it not?"

Gúthwyn closed her fist around Lothíriel's arm and wrenched it away, her strength easily overriding that of the queen's. "If you touch me again," she said calmly, though her heart was beating rapidly with both fury and dread, "I will break your neck, and tell Éomer that it was an accident."

To her credit, Lothíriel did not flinch, but Gúthwyn knew her words had still resonated clearly in the woman's mind. Stepping away, Éomund's daughter lifted her voice slightly. "Breca?" she called, suspecting that the stableboy was hovering outside nearby.

Luckily, she was right. A minute later he emerged, bowing as he did so, and asked, "Yes, my lady?" Out of courtesy, he gave another bow to Lothíriel, though both women observed that he did not bend as much.

Gúthwyn smiled at him in order to make up for the queen's iciness. "Will you tell me more about Sceoh?"

Clearly taken aback, Breca looked between her and the thin horse hovering in the corner. "W-What do you wish to know about him?"

Half unsure of what she was doing, Gúthwyn began walking towards Sceoh's stall. She did not know what it was about the stallion that drew her so; she was curious about him, though other than the rare color of his coat—black—she could think of no reason why she should be. "Why is he so shy?" she asked, pausing a few feet away from the door and looking at him. He pawed nervously at the ground.

"There was an accident, my lady," Breca explained. "I was not there, but one of the men told me about it. He used to belong to another Rider, who rode out with him to battle when the Uruks attacked the land."

"What was the Rider's name?" Gúthwyn inquired. Lothíriel rolled her eyes at her curiosity, though Breca did not notice and shrugged.

"I do not remember," he replied; "it was years ago. In any case, during a raid his Rider perished. The Uruks had brought Wargs, and once the Rider was gone they attacked the horse. Sceoh was bitten in his leg and walked with a limp until recently, yet his fear of them never diminished and we could not bring him into battle because of it."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened almost imperceptibly to discover that she and Sceoh shared the same terror of Wargs. "How old is he?" she asked.

A wary expression crossed Breca's face. "My lady—"

"How old is he?" she repeated.

"Fifteen," Breca sighed, not liking the way her interrogation was going. "He was young for battle, but we needed all the horses we could get. If I were you, I would look elsewhere—"

"He will do," Gúthwyn announced suddenly.

Even Lothíriel seemed taken aback, though her lip curled as if she had half-suspected it all along.

"My lady," Breca began, sounding astonished, "you do not have to take pity on him, I am sure someone will buy him soon enough. He has not been eating well, I do not think King Éomer—"

Anger flared within her at the mention of her overbearing brother. "If Éomer has a problem, he may discuss it with me later. How much do I owe you?"

"I am only passing the money on," Breca said quickly. "Elfhelm is selling it."

At his words, Gúthwyn remembered the Marshal telling her something about having troubles with a horse who occasionally refused to eat and would let few people near.

"But, my lady, your brother has already set aside… there is a chest to which I have the key, if you want to see it…"

Something in his voice made Gúthwyn pause. "How much money is in it?" she asked slowly.

"Far more than this horse is worth."

Gúthwyn sighed. It was a noble gesture on Éomer's part, and unfortunately it had placed her in a neat bind: how would her brother feel to learn that she had spent his silver on an underfed horse who was terrified of being touched?

"Breca," she said suddenly, remembering something he had once mentioned to her, "is your mother still taken by the fever?"

The boy started. "Y-Yes, my lady," he responded, the corners of his mouth turning downwards. "And now my sister has it, as well."

_I daresay I shall contract it before the month is out, _Gúthwyn thought wearily.

Catching sight of her and Lothíriel's expressions, Breca hastened to say, "We are keeping them well away from the visitors, they will not—"

Although she thought that a little plague might do the Dol Amroth delegation some good, Gúthwyn quickly assured him that he need not worry. "Besides," she added lightly, "they will be in good hands with our healer."

Breca flushed and stared at the ground, shame-faced. "We do not have the money," he admitted, his voice not rising above a mutter. Over his steadily reddening neck, Lothíriel glared at Gúthwyn, as if to berate her for her insensitivity—or to signal her impatience.

"Yes, you do," Éomund's daughter said firmly.

"Unfortunately, we—"

"Give to Elfhelm the sum he has asked for Sceoh," Gúthwyn interrupted him, "and then use the rest of it to get your family the proper care they deserve."

Breca's shocked features almost made her laugh, but she did not want him to think that she was toying with his concerns. "M-My lady," he stammered, now the color of Éomer's armor, "I cannot accept…"

"Yes, you can," Gúthwyn replied softly. "I have been sick often; I remember what they are going through, and there is no reason for them to suffer. Please, take care of them and send them my regards."

The stableboy could hardly speak for amazement. "But…"

"Breca," she said, steadfastly ignoring Lothíriel's incredulous expression as she placed a hand on his shoulder, "you are here because you serve the royal family, correct?"

"Y-Yes," Breca stuttered, looking at her in bewilderment.

"And am I not part of the royal family?"

Lothíriel snorted, yet Breca did not hesitate as he replied, "Yes."

"Then serve me," Gúthwyn ordered, "and use the money for your family. Go, before I change my mind."

She was not planning on rescinding the gesture, but it had the desired effect. Breca took off at once, only pausing to thank her emphatically. Gúthwyn grinned as she watched him go, glad that she could repay him for all the care he had given Heorot in her horse's last days.

"You are pathetic," Lothíriel muttered as soon as Breca had passed through the doors. "Do you not realize that Éomer is trying to save money, rather than squander it on peasants?"

"My brother set aside a certain sum that was to be used on the horse I desired," Gúthwyn replied smoothly. "If I have gotten one at a bargain price, why should I not spend the rest in a way that helps his own people?"

"If this is your attitude," Lothíriel said through clenched teeth, "then had you become the princess of Dol Amroth you would have drained our coffers within a week. You do not spend money on healer's fees for one person, you spend it on improving the crops so that there is food to strengthen the entire city and make them less susceptible to disease in the first place! You spend it in trade with the men who raise sheep, so that their wool can be used to clothe a population over the winter and guard their bodies against the cold, and thus illness! Are you so daft that you cannot see this?"

Gúthwyn lifted her chin, knowing that her cheeks were slightly pink from recognition of her mistake but refusing to back down. "If Éomer had not intended for the coins to be used, he never would have given it to Breca. Besides, helping a sick woman and her child is just about the only good thing his money has done this whole month!"

Lothíriel's eyes flashed dangerously. "What are you implying?" she demanded.

"No matter what Éomer does, your loathsome guests will never like it here!" Gúthwyn spat. "I do not know why they came, but they would be better off leaving if they are so miserable! They ridicule us all behind our backs, even you! They—"

The _smack_ was so loud that it almost hurt Gúthwyn's ears more than it did her face. Then, realizing where it had come from, she gaped at Lothíriel, hardly able to believe that she had just been slapped by her brother's wife. The queen did not seem to comprehend it, either; Gúthwyn could tell it was the first time she had ever struck anyone, from the slight widening of her eyes as she glanced down at her and to the gleam that sparkled within them once she understood the power that lay behind the hit.

"You little _whore_," Lothíriel hissed, the closest Éomund's daughter had ever come to seeing her lose control. "You ungrateful little _whore!_ All you are is a burden to Éomer, you slut, flaunting his money and affection around as if they were but trifles! You humiliate him in front of his guests, you insult my brother and my father on every possible occasion, and you dare accuse their subjects of being anything less than welcome!"

In the midst of her daze, Gúthwyn remembered something about promising to break Lothíriel's neck if the woman ever touched her again, but she found that she could barely move for astonishment. She had never seen the queen's temper display itself so hideously.

"_One_ wrong move," Lothíriel snarled, "and I swear I will make Elfwine hate you for the rest of his life!"

Gúthwyn's mouth dropped open, more out of disgust and surprise than actual fear. Had the queen lost her mind?

Taking her silence for acquiescence, Lothíriel smiled—not the beautiful one that Éomer confessed himself to be entranced by, but a triumphant, cruel one that seemed to come all too naturally to her. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have pressing business to attend to," she said, and without another word stalked out of the stables, her back rigid in fury.

Hardly able to comprehend that Lothíriel had just snapped in such a manner, Gúthwyn stood there for a full minute, wondering what she had ever done to deserve the hatred of the queen. Surely beating her at sparring was not cause for this? Threatening to manipulate Elfwine was both petty and horrible, especially since he had only just had his first birthday. Was she truly capable of such a thing?

The snorting of a horse brought her back to her senses. Coming to, she glanced around and realized that it was Sceoh who had made the noise; Sceoh, who was now her mount. Guardedly she walked towards him, wondering how long he would let her approach in silence. The dark stallion stared at her as she drew nearer, but when she came within five feet of the door he snorted again. This time, he also backed away.

"Hello, my friend," she said quietly, not pressing him any further and remaining where she was. "You and I are going to ride together from now on."

She knew she sounded stupid talking to a horse, yet she was hardly the first person to do so. "First, however," she mused, "we need to put some food into you. There must be something you like…" There had to be. Heorot had been fond of sugar cubes; yet she knew Elfhelm rewarded his horses with those on occasion, and given Sceoh's apparent aversion to eating, Breca would have informed her if they pleased the stallion.

Unconsciously she stepped closer to Sceoh's confinement, but was reminded of her place when he stamped his feet on the ground nervously and backed into the corner of the stall. "I am a friend," she promised, retreating to where she had stood a few seconds ago. "I know…" She swallowed. "I know what it is like to be afraid. I swear to you, you need never fear when you are in my company."

Sceoh's coal black eyes held hers steadily, though he plainly did not trust her. Gúthwyn sighed, fully aware that she had her work cut out for her. _Perhaps he will come around after we have spent more time with each other,_ she thought. _Or after I show him that I mean no harm._ Trust was a difficult thing to earn; Éomund's daughter was determined to obtain Sceoh's.

For some reason, she thought of Legolas just then, but his image soon faded from her mind as she returned to the Golden Hall.


	91. Tales of Théodred

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ninety-One:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Ninety-One**

Clutching her sword to her chest, Gúthwyn cautiously stuck her head into the throne room. Her heart was beating more rapidly than usual as she prepared to dart through the hall, and not just because of the Elves who were sleeping there. If Éomer happened to rise from his bed and discover what she was doing, he would be absolutely furious with her.

_At this point, that is the last thing I need,_ she thought grimly. Her brother had been irritated to discover that she had bought the runt of Elfhelm's litter, much to Lothíriel's delight. Gúthwyn suspected that, had the delegation of Dol Amroth not been visiting, he would have been more lenient with her decision, but he had given her nearly half an hour of grief over it. Unlike his wife, however, he had been mollified to learn that he had not been cheated on Sceoh's purchase, though he did gently point out that she could not provide for all the commoners of Edoras.

_How do you like that, your highness?_ Gúthwyn thought savagely in the direction of the queen's chambers, edging out from her hiding place within the shadows of the corridor and creeping towards her destination. She was momentarily distracted by the sight of the Elves, all lying serenely on their backs with their eyes wide open. A small shudder passed over her as she remembered quivering beside Haldor on the mercifully few nights he had made her stay in his bed. Then the terror passed, and she was able to calm herself before closing her hand around the door and pushing it open.

The balmy night air was a welcome greeting, and she paused to take a deep breath of it. Briefly, she wondered what Legolas would think when he emerged to look at the stars and did not see her already there. A strange part of her was actually disappointed that she would not get a chance to strengthen her newfound confidence around him, but she was desperate to practice with Framwine and this was the only time it was safe for her to do so.

As she made her way down the stairs, she caught a glimpse of the well and grimaced. Hammel and Aldeth had managed to have a civil, if somewhat strained, conversation today, but when she had discreetly inquired about it the boy had refused to speak to her. He had barely exchanged a word with Éomund's daughter since then, nor had their relationship improved at all after she had confronted him about his nighttime wanderings. She could not help wondering what Hammel would say if he knew that she were committing the same crime this very instant.

Her musings carried her up the slope of the hill that Meduseld rested upon, but once she reached the rocky path that wound around the hall she was forced to give her full attention to the trail, lest she lose her footing and possibly injure herself. Slowly she picked a route over the stones that were scattered across the way, the stones that deterred most from traveling this far back.

She was rewarded for her efforts by the grass lawn that opened in front of her after a five-minute hike. Although it was a bit small for fighting with swords, it held a special place in Gúthwyn's heart as the spot where Théodred had taught her everything she knew about hand-to-hand combat. Here she had sparred with her cousin, trading everything from punches to kicks and even once or twice managing to flip him over her shoulder. Tears glistened in her eyes at the thought that she would be coming here alone for the rest of her life, but hastily she wiped them away and banished the memories from her mind. She had a sword to wield.

Drawing Framwine from his sheathe, Gúthwyn settled into a comfortable stance and gave a few experimental whirls of the blade. Then she began to use it in earnest, parrying and dodging invisible opponents. Beads of sweat were soon forming on her brow as she leaped and thrust, fending off her attackers with a ferocity that had not overcome her since the days when she had needed a weapon for her own survival. Her leggings and tunic were clinging to her skin as she dueled her way around the clearing, each breeze an appreciated relief.

Her movements were fluid, each coming more naturally than the one before it. Gradually the day's cares began to melt away from her consciousness. She forgot about Lothíriel, Éomer, and Hammel, their faces fading with every stroke of her blade. Even the unwanted Dol Amroth visitors vanished, until she could not remember what a single one of them looked like. Elphir's forbidding features, Lady Míriel's scornful laugh, and Amrothos's cocky smirk all slid from her mind.

Gúthwyn's concentration was such that, for several minutes, she did not notice the presence of another in the clearing. Though the stars' rays fell on him and made him seem as if he were glowing, she was oblivious to him and did not hear when he softly called her name. Failing to attract her attention, he sat down on a nearby rock and waited, his eyes all the while following her sword.

After having decapitated various imaginary foes—most of whom looked suspiciously like Lothíriel—Gúthwyn came to a halt and lowered her sword, breathing heavily from exertion. Pleased that she had gotten in the extra practice time, she turned around to find a place to rest and saw Legolas sitting on a boulder and watching her.

Framwine clattered to the ground and she gasped, instinctively leaping backwards as he rose to his feet. "What… what are you…" she stammered over the pounding of her heart, all the comfort that had taken her years to achieve around him evanescing in an instant.

"I am sorry," Legolas apologized quickly, seeing the expression on her face. "I did not mean to startle you."

Gúthwyn swallowed, struggling to get a grip on herself before she panicked completely. "H-How long have you been here?" she asked in what she prayed was an even voice.

"I saw you disappearing around the corner of the hall," Legolas admitted, "and I wondered why you would go to what I assumed a barren hill when before you had been content to sit."

"You followed me?" she questioned, her mouth opening slightly.

"I am sorry," Legolas said again, his words tinged with sheepishness. "I was curious, and I did not want you to hurt yourself wandering alone."

She could not help but bristle at the similarities of his speech to Éomer's, for she knew her brother would have had the exact same concerns. "I can take care of myself," she replied, trying to sound haughty yet coming off as sullen. "Why did you not alert me to your arrival?"

"I tried," Legolas admitted, a rueful grin crossing his features. "You did not hear me, so I decided to wait."

A chill ran through Gúthwyn as she pictured him watching her, and though she bent down to pick up her sword, she did not sheathe it. Instead she tightened her hold on the handle, needing something onto which she could channel her anxieties.

"Why did you come here?" Legolas inquired cautiously, not moving from where he stood.

"Éomer has banned me from the training grounds," Gúthwyn answered bitterly. "Or did you not know?"

"I heard a rumor of an argument between the two of you," Legolas acknowledged, "though not the details. Why?"

Gúthwyn rolled her eyes to the dark sky. "Evidently, my friendship with Cobryn is now the makings of a scandal, and the nobles from Dol Amroth refuse to practice around me. Thus, I am not allowed to spar with the other men."

Legolas mulled over her explanation, at length saying he was sorry for her discontent.

"No unnecessary apologies, remember our agreement?" Gúthwyn asked. "You did not bring this upon me. My brother did, and I daresay I have cursed him for it enough. It is no matter. I can train here."

"For what?" Legolas wanted to know.

Gúthwyn blinked, trying very hard not to think of the upcoming tournament. "What do you mean?"

"While I was watching you," Legolas explained, knitting his brow, "it seemed as if you were concentrating on something."

"Oh—" Gúthwyn flushed, trying to come up with something to say. "It was nothing."

An awkward silence fell between them, in which Éomund's daughter turned her gaze to the breathtaking view across the plains that had dazzled her when she was a young girl, but was now veiled in shadow. "My cousin used to take me here," she announced abruptly, unable to bring herself to say his name.

Legolas said nothing, but something in his expression told her that she could continue.

"He used to teach me how to… how to fight," she spoke. Shivers wracked her body, though it was not cold. "I wanted to wrestle with the boys and he was the only one who would let me—Théoden thought I was too little and Éomer could have cared less. We used to come here and…" Angrily she wiped at her eyes, which were irritating her. "Forget it."

"Are you all right?" Legolas questioned softly. He had drawn closer.

"Yes, I am fine," she hastily responded; too hastily. "I just wish…"

He pressed her gently when she faltered, but she shook her head. "It is foolish."

"How do you know?"

His inquiry startled her. "B-Because it will never happen," she replied.

"That does not make it foolish."

Gúthwyn sighed. "I just… I just wish that he were still alive," she muttered. "Éomer is a good king, yet I cannot help but think that…" She stopped, too ashamed to continue. Legolas prompted her again. A keen desire to speak her mind suddenly filled her, and she blurted out, "That my cousin would not force me into a marriage with someone, or forbid me from going to the training grounds… that he would not tolerate the visitors from Dol Amroth…"

To her humiliation, her shoulders heaved violently up and down before she was able to quell them. Théodred was a gaping hole in her heart, a wound that had never come close to healing. He was the pain of loving someone more than life itself, of looking up to them as if they were higher than the Valar, and then having them torn away without even being allowed to say goodbye. She had idolized Théodred in her childhood, nearly worshipped him—and he had been cut down at the very age he should have had a family to care for, a crown to prepare for.

"I miss him so much," she choked out in a whisper that she prayed Legolas had not heard.

Unfortunately, he had. "I wish there was something I could do," he murmured, clearly struck by her wretchedness. "You must have loved him greatly."

Gúthwyn nodded unhappily. "I followed him around almost every single day," she elucidated, a sad smile managing to tug at the corners of her mouth as she remembered tagging along behind her cousin. "The only time he grew angry with me was when I took his sword and tried to practice with it."

Legolas raised his eyebrows. "You were able to wield it?"

"That was the thing," Gúthwyn said wryly. "I could not. I had to drag it out of his room, and the racket brought half the servants running. He came only a few minutes after they did."

"What did he do?" Legolas inquired. She observed then that he was a mere five feet away from her—her heart should have quickened at the sight, but all she knew was sadness as she answered:

"He refused to teach me for a week, though he spoke kindly to me within hours. I was miserable, and he was fully aware of it. He said that was punishment enough. I never took his sword again."

"My father did something similar to that, once," Legolas mused.

Her attention was lifted from Théodred as she inquired, "He did?"

Legolas nodded. "It was chastisement for breaking into the kitchens and stealing honey cakes," he admitted sheepishly. "I also took some wine, though I only drank a little of it. He canceled all of my lessons with the archery instructor for six months, and sent me to work with the cooks for half of that time—one of his preferred methods of disciplining."

"You stole _honey cakes?_" Gúthwyn repeated in disbelief. She did not say it aloud, but it seemed a very paltry thing to put yourself in risk of trouble for.

"They used to be quite rare," Legolas defended himself. "Near the borders of Eryn Lasgalen lived a man named Beorn, who kept thousands of bees upon his land and was thus able to make them. He distrusted almost everyone, however, and it was next to impossible to buy them. My father was furious, as he had intended for them to be served as the final course for a dinner with various councilors from Rivendell."

"What did he have to use instead?" Gúthwyn asked, curious in spite of her mood.

"I do not know," Legolas replied. "I was not allowed to attend because of my thievery."

She smiled. "That must have been most unfortunate."

"Hardly," he informed her. "I eavesdropped at the door, and nothing they discussed was of any interest to me."

Gúthwyn could not begin to imagine the prince crouched like a naughty servant upon the threshold of his father's dining room, straining to catch the conversation, and told him so. "That seems impossible."

"Not at all: I was rather a difficult child. I managed to vex him constantly. Several of the servants affectionately referred to me as 'the terror.'"

Théodred was slowly beginning to retreat from her mind; she snorted at the description of the dignified Elf who now stood before her. "You? A terror?" she asked disbelievingly. "I would have expected a perfect little prince."

"So did my father, but that was not the case. Was your brother always on his best behavior when he was in your uncle's care?"

She shook her head emphatically, remembering the time Éomer had locked her out of the city and then forgotten about her.

"There you have it," Legolas finished, grinning. "We are not all that different from humans."

_What human would ever be capable of the cruelty that Haldor showed me?_

The thought came unbidden to her mind, and she shook her head to be rid of it. Hundreds of thousands of Men had joined the Enemy when sides were drawn; most were pressed into service, but others had terrible streaks of evil within that could very well corrupt them to the point where they would gleefully commit such atrocities on a woman.

"I should… I should go," she said, once again shivering and seizing upon the excuse. "It is getting cold."

Legolas nodded, though it was in fact rather warm out. "Would you like me to escort you back?"

"Yes, please," she said, biting her lip afterwards as she became uncomfortably aware of the fact that she had just used the word "please" around him. Yet as childish as it sounded, she did not like the idea of Legolas alone in the place where Théodred had trained her, without her to keep an eye on him. It was too sacred a location to leave him there, though he would never do anything to ruin it and would have been offended if she had suggested it. She just did not want to think of anyone there without her having control over the situation.

Whether he suspected this unreasonable jealousy or not, Legolas fell into place slightly behind her as they began making their way back to the Golden Hall. The trail was not wide enough for both of them, nor indeed safe enough for two to attempt it at once, but she knew she glanced over her shoulder too often to ensure that he was still there. After seeing what Haldor was capable of, she had no desire to let herself be caught off-guard by his duplicate.

She became so anxious about the ludicrous possibility of Legolas attacking her that she forgot to pay attention to where she was going, and as a result tripped rather spectacularly over a rock that lay in plain sight across the path. Caught off-guard, she stumbled, at the same time feeling a sharp pain in her right ankle. She cried out as she fell to the ground, thrusting her hands in front of her in a vain attempt to protect herself from the jagged stones.

Had Legolas not grabbed her by the waist and hauled her back up, she would have likely punctured her palms or even broken something. As it were, she gasped not only in fright but in pain, for her ankle was throbbing.

"Are you hurt?" he asked quickly, removing his hands from her as soon as she was steady.

Gúthwyn found that she was too embarrassed to admit the truth. "I am fine," she replied, gritting her teeth and ignoring her ankle's protests. "I just slipped."

He inclined his head, but a quick glance at his face told her that he did not believe her any more than she did. Flushed with mortification, she stared at the ground for the rest of the way back, determined not to lose her footing again. Her sense of discomfort was only heightened by the fact that Legolas was closer to her than ever before, so that he might prevent her from falling a second time.

When they returned, she thanked him and fled into the safety of her chambers, trying to ignore the pain in her ankle.

* * *

In all her years, Gúthwyn had never met a horse who was more resistant to human company. Even Shadowfax, Gandalf's proud stallion, was comfortable in the midst of a crowd. Sceoh could barely tolerate one person, let alone a throng. It took Éomund's daughter over an hour to earn enough of his trust so that she might lean on the stall door and talk to him. Her offer of a carrot was refused, but she noticed that when she left it where he could reach and disappeared for a time, the food was gone upon her return. 

Amrothos came to speak to her once, halfway through the afternoon. She was conversing with Sceoh when she felt it: the gaze of an unwanted visitor, the knowledge that it was the dark-eyed prince, and the realization that Breca had left five minutes ago and she was all alone in the stables.

"Is this where you have been hiding all day?" Amrothos inquired, stepping boldly towards her and hardly noticing when Sceoh took fright and backed away, ruining all of her progress.

"I have not been hiding," Gúthwyn ground out, irritated with him for interrupting. "Do not come near, he does not like—"

"I need to talk to you," Amrothos cut her off, halting his stride not two feet away from where she stood. Against her will, she felt every muscle in her body tighten.

"About what?" she asked, gritting her teeth and trying not to panic when he moved even closer, and she could smell the ale on his breath.

"The tournament," he said, his voice a soft whisper that nevertheless reverberated in her ears.

Gúthwyn did not answer. Sceoh's terrified eyes were a mirror image of her own.

"Well?" he inquired when she gave no response.

"What?" she finally managed.

"You were supposed to say, 'What, Amrothos? Tell me what you mean. I am breathless to hear your every word. I greatly desire to know how to salvage our plan, especially after I made such a hideous mess out of it at the feast three days ago.'"

"That was your fault," Gúthwyn retorted, falling for the bait. "You should never have given me that dress! You knew I looked like a whore, you knew—"

"Why should that matter, if Elphir spent the night dreaming about you with your head between his legs?"

Gúthwyn recoiled in horror, clutching her stomach and thinking that she would be sick. Utterly powerless to stop the memories, she heard the _thump_ of her knees hitting the ground in front of Haldor, tasted his disgusting stiffness as he forced her to go down on him. She convulsed when he released, swallowing and choking on the seed that flooded her mouth like poison.

Amrothos rolled his eyes at what he must have thought was her prudishness. "Perhaps you are aware," he said softly, advancing towards her, "that there are a lot of men"—Gúthwyn edged away, feeling a fresh wave of panic when her back hit the stall door—"who might find themselves occupied with similar dreams." His legs were just brushing against the skirts of her dress.

"Get away from me, you snake," she spat, her hands quivering in terror.

"On the contrary," Amrothos murmured, "I have often been compared to a wolf."

He flashed her a grin, and suddenly it was not hard to agree.

"Get away from me," she repeated, and did perhaps the most foolish thing she could have done under her circumstances: she squeezed her eyes shut.

Yet then the air was freer around her, and his voice was distant as he asked, "What have I done?" Every syllable had the tone of someone who had been falsely accused of a crime. Bewildered, Gúthwyn blinked and realized that he had moved away from her, and was now standing at a good yard's distance with his arms folded across his chest.

"Do not ever speak like that around me again, you pig," she snapped, nearly fainting for relief.

"First I am a snake, now I am a pig? A rather unusual combination," Amrothos smirked. Gúthwyn wanted to scream.

"Leave me alone!" she exclaimed instead, glaring as fiercely as she might. "I have no desire for your company."

"You never asked about the tournament," he reminded her triumphantly.

"Then explain it quickly," Gúthwyn snapped, "or be off."

He raised an eyebrow. "You must have gotten up in the wrong bed this morning."

"The wrong _side_ of the bed," she corrected him with flaming cheeks.

Amrothos grinned. "Yes, I suppose. In any case, I have a proposition to make."

"What sort of a proposition?" she asked, eying him warily.

"I want you to enter the tournament," he announced.

Gúthwyn's mouth dropped open in shock. "_What?_"

"You heard me," he shot back. "Elphir used to praise you to no end about your skills with a sword. You did not even hear half of it; my ears were near bleeding after he spent the entire way home commending your prowess. I do not know why I did not think of it earlier."

"You want me," Gúthwyn began slowly, "to participate in the tournament because Elphir likes to watch me fight?"

Amrothos nodded, his motions exaggerated as though she were a two-year-old in need of further clarification. "Besides, I would wager that you were already planning on it. I daresay all you required was the proper encouragement."

In stark contrast to his words, Gúthwyn—though she had, in fact, been entertaining the idea before—now thought worse of the suggestion, simply because it had come from Amrothos's mouth. He recognized this.

"In case you have not noticed," he said, "your situation with Elphir has not improved at all since his arrival."

"Yes, because of _your_ foolish suggestion to wear that loathsome dress!" she snarled, clenching her fists. "I will not risk my brother's displeasure for another harebrained scheme of yours!"

"No risk, no gain," Amrothos reminded her coldly. "Think about it while you sit idle in your chambers because you are not allowed to practice."

With that he left her, walking away without a backward glance. Gúthwyn winced as the doors slammed shut behind him, but she was even more disheartened when she returned her attentions to Sceoh and saw how keen his restlessness was.

_Thanks for nothing,_ she thought savagely, clenching her fists at the memory of the prince. Her heart was still pounding from how close his body had been to her own. For that one moment, she had believed… no, she could not dwell upon that. Amrothos was forward and flirtatious by nature; he probably saw everything as a game, herself no more than a reluctant participant—or even a prize to be won for his brother.

_I am no man's prize,_ she swore. _The sooner Amrothos learns that, the better._

* * *

**To the anonymous reviewer named "Bored with this story": **I'm sorry you feel that way. Yes, I realize that Gúthwyn's recovery is taking a long time, but I decided awhile ago that I would prefer not to sacrifice realism for the sake of moving the plot along. I feel that, given the abuse Gúthwyn experienced, it's simply not plausible for her to just bounce right back to the way she was before she became a slave. And yes, I'm aware that her struggles with food can seem tedious, but as I've said, her problems aren't going to disappear in the blink of an eye. As for her being treated like dirt - well, that's not going to change until the Dol Amroth delegation leaves, at which point, yes, she will develop more of a backbone. I'm sorry you haven't been having a good reading experience; I hope that you like the next chapters better. 

**IMPORTANT:** I'm considering changing my penname to **anolinde**, mainly because all of my accounts on other sites use that name. If WhiteLadyOfTroy randomly disappears from this site, don't worry, I'll still be here - just under **anolinde**.


	92. Amrothos's Web

**A/N:** Just a reminder - I'm going to be changing my penname to **anolinde** soon.

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ninety-Two:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Ninety-Two**

With a long, exaggerated sigh, Lady Míriel stretched her arms above her head, having just risen at an appropriately late hour. Ignoring the servant who pattered around the tent she shared with her husband, she lifted her eyes and examined her surroundings from beneath exquisite eyelashes.

Naturally, the Rohirrim had not been able to provide proper lodgings for them all. Pathetic hosts—Lady Míriel sneered at the thought of them scampering around to find the accommodations, utterly unprepared to deal with the sudden onset of Dol Amroth nobility. She did not know why they even bothered. Never before had she tasted such disgusting food, nor lived in such an unclean society.

To be quite honest, she had expected worse than this, and had come fully ready to gloat at Lothíriel for her situation. Unfortunately, the spoiled brat did not yet seem affected by her surroundings. Her old wiles were still there; if anything, she had grown cleverer in her absence from court. And remembering all too well the humiliation she had suffered at Lady Míriel's hands, the queen had gone out of her way to snub her on every possible occasion. As much as Tulkadan's wife hated to admit it, she had been forced to endure a fair share of mortification under her rival's watchful eye.

_That little whore,_ she thought, glowering. She had seen Lothíriel's fall from grace nine years ago—for Eru's sake, she had orchestrated it—and yet somehow the insolent woman had managed to ensnare the king of Rohan and thus outrank even her father. Lady Míriel did not know what Éomer could possibly see in his wife. She was arrogant, cold-hearted, and foolish enough to think that she could dabble in the politics of her betters. Clearly there was witchcraft, or something akin to it, at work.

"My lady?"

The timid maid's call was acknowledged only by a flickering of velvety green eyes. Plain and dim-witted, the girl curtsied before saying, "A letter has come for you, my lady. Shall I bring it to you?"

"Leave it on the table," Lady Míriel said shortly, indicating the nightstand beside her bed. She was glad that she had insisted on bringing furniture; not even she had imagined that their quarters would be so sparse. Her disdainful gaze surveyed the billowing silk walls of the tent that had functioned as her chambers for almost three weeks. An unbearably miserable three weeks, for there was no decent entertainment to be had here and the people were loathsome.

When the girl brought over the letter, Lady Míriel did not look at her. This was a silent signal for her dismissal. She would return, of course, in five minutes to inquire as to whether there was anything more she might do for her mistress. Lady Míriel had to remember not to treat her too harshly, or the maid might very well choose to recall that there were other people in Dol Amroth who could afford higher wages. She certainly would not be the first servant to leave them, especially after her husband had lost his position on Imrahil's council. Her nostrils flared angrily: something else she had Lothíriel to thank for.

Stretching out a delicate arm untouched by the sun's rays, she took the letter from the table, wondering who could possibly be writing to her. All of the ladies in whose company she spent most of her time were in the camp, and the old, wretched miser that was her mother had not spoken a word to her since she and Tulkadan had fallen out of favor with the ruling family of Dol Amroth. Closer inspection of the envelope revealed no handwriting that she could recognize.

Pursing her lips, Lady Míriel opened the letter and read the short note that had been scrawled inside. Her eyebrows rose so far that they almost disappeared beneath her hair.

_When you are seated next to her tonight, please ask Lady Gúthwyn about the upcoming tournament. I am very interested as to why she does not yet have a champion. Perhaps you and your husband might explain to her the importance of obtaining one._

There was no signature.

Lady Míriel stared at the letter and then flipped it over, thinking that her mysterious correspondent might have included further instructions—or better, an explanation. She did not see anything, which only served to heighten her intrigue. Why would anyone care about the unfortunate fool Gúthwyn selected as her champion? The woman was a harlot; whichever soldier chose to risk his reputation for her sake had no more intelligence than his horse.

Yet someone evidently thought the matter was important, despite wanting to keep their interest a secret. Lady Míriel's mind sorted through the possibilities. An admirer, perhaps, hoping to win Gúthwyn's attention as her champion but unsure of whether she already had one? It would be easy enough to discover that through an indirect inquiry, if one were so inclined.

That was fine and well—let the man consort with the likes of the king's sister—but why involve her? Lady Míriel had barely spoken a word to the woman, for despite her status she was so far beneath her in terms of refinement that it was laughable. Who, then, could have made a connection between them? The nobles from Dol Amroth had no tolerance for whores; none of them could be behind this.

On the other hand, there was no reason for any of the Rohirrim to single her out. Lady Míriel was puzzled: what differentiated her from the other visitors? Her vanity attributed it to her looks, which were admittedly far more striking than those of her companions, but the buffoons in Edoras likely would not recognize finery if they were whacked over the head with it.

That left only one person who was from neither Rohan nor Dol Amroth: Cobryn, the intelligent advisor with whom Gúthwyn had been seen holding hands. He was clearly not Rohirric, as evidenced by his darker hair and the style in which he wore it. No one was entirely sure where he came from. He could have easily passed for Gondorian, but no man accustomed to the civilization of the White City would have willingly abandoned it for the backward society in whose fields she was now resting.

Even if it was Cobryn, the only man in Edoras presumably observant enough to be aware of Lady Míriel's existence, knowing the identity of the person who wrote the letter did not make things any clearer. Why should she and Tulkadan be the ones to bring up the matter of the tournament? Her husband was highly disapproving of Gúthwyn, and had remarked that she was more barbaric than the rest of her people combined. Neither of them had any desire to associate themselves with the woman.

Sighing, she glanced at the letter once again. Who was she to pass up an opportunity to gather fresh gossip? All she had to do to ascertain the name of her new correspondent was keep an eye on the main suspect—Cobryn—while she struck up a discreet conversation with Gúthwyn. Whoever was paying close enough attention would certainly be the one who had written to her. Once Lady Míriel discovered their identity, she would then use her cunning to learn why she had been chosen to carry out this plot.

In the meantime, she could go on ignoring the king's sister to her heart's content. Lady Míriel sneered at the ruins Gúthwyn's status was in, knowing fully well that she would never recover from the scandal of giving birth to two children. Naturally, the main objective of most of the women staying here was to determine who the father was, but as of yet they had had no luck.

_Probably some soldier,_ she thought derisively, _or a regular at whatever tavern she prostituted herself._ A shudder passed over her at the idea of such a disgrace.

She had to give Gúthwyn credit, however: even the most careful of observers would never be able to detect from her mannerisms that she was as loose as rumors suggested. Whenever someone unexpectedly touched her, she flinched; the slightest hint of ribaldry was enough to make her cheeks turn red. With the exception of that disgusting dress she had donned at a recent feast, her clothing was conservative to a fault and she did not even wear much jewelry.

These quirks, however, were easily overridden by her companionship with the Rohirric men. She was too familiar with them, always laughing and fooling around when they were on the training grounds. The wives and sisters of these soldiers—hopelessly backward yet an excellent source for gossip—attested that she frequently hugged them and let them flirt with her, even during her betrothal to Elphir.

Lady Míriel's upper lip curled. She did not understand what the prince could have possibly seen in Gúthwyn. Her actions were reprehensible, she was so thin that she looked as if she had been starved for most of her life, and she had absolutely no curves to speak of. Lady Míriel knew _she_ was not lacking in that particular area, yet long ago Elphir had rejected her and instead sought the hand of the wretched woman who had died giving birth to his little brat.

A scowl briefly marred her features, but Lady Míriel was not about to lose herself in those memories. Tossing the letter to the floor and straightening, she prepared to face yet another monotonous day in the land of Rohan.

* * *

A few hours later Gúthwyn awoke, yawning and stretching as she tried to figure out what time it was. By the way the sunlight was streaming into her room, it was already noon. For an enjoyable moment, she entertained the idea of not getting up at all and savoring a couple more hours of sleep, but at length she remembered her duty to her guests and pushed the covers away. 

A cold blast of air made her regret her decision almost instantaneously, though she did not waver and determinedly placed her bare feet on the floor. As she stood, something on her nightstand caught her eye: a folded piece of parchment that had not been there the night before.

_What might that be?_ she wondered, reaching out to pick it up. It had her name on it, so it must have been a letter, but it was clearly not Éowyn's handwriting. Her sister was now the only person who wrote to her, since Elphir had decided that he could not be bothered maintaining a correspondence.

Her curiosity showing in her haste, she removed the seal and opened it to reveal a single question written in a scrawl that Lady Míriel would no doubt recognize:

_Have you yet reconsidered the matter of the tournament?_

Any vestige of a good mood left within her disappeared. _Amrothos,_ she thought, glowering. She had refused to take him up on his plan the day before yesterday, and ever since then he had continually pestered her about the matter. With the tournament set for tomorrow, he was bound to be even more irksome than he had been recently.

Groaning, she stuffed the letter into one of her desk drawers and set about getting ready for the day. After donning a grey dress, pulling on her leather boots, and running the brush through her hair a couple of times, she departed from her chambers. Soon she emerged into the great hall, almost immediately catching sight of her brother. Unfortunately, Lothíriel was at his table, but so were Elfwine and Imrahil. Squaring her shoulders, she approached them.

"Good morning, sister!" Éomer greeted her as she drew near to them. "Or shall I say afternoon? Indeed, it is almost evening."

"It is not," Gúthwyn retorted with a grin. "May I sit, or do you have important business to discuss?"

"Not at all," Éomer assured her, and gestured to the empty spot on the bench beside him. "Please, sit. You missed breakfast by several hours, but there might be some lunch left…" He gave a mock glare when she whacked him on the arm.

"Gúthy eat," Elfwine commanded, fixing her with a look closely resembling that of his father's. "Need eat."

Gúthwyn raised an eyebrow. "Did you teach him that?" she asked her brother, noting uneasily that the others were watching their exchange.

"No," Éomer replied, shaking his head. Lowering his voice, he added, "Yet the Valar know how many times he has heard me saying it."

She frowned at him, suddenly in a worse mood than she had been before. Perhaps Éomer sensed this, because he turned away and called a servant over. With unfortunate haste the woman arrived, almost instinctively looking at Gúthwyn when she asked what they desired.

It was left to Éomund's daughter to decide what she wanted for lunch. She was hungry, but having not yet developed a liking for any particular kind of food it was rather difficult to cheerfully agree to having something. "Surprise me," she was tempted to say, yet that would hardly win Éomer's approval. "Anything without meat," she instead told the servant. Imrahil did not know what she had asked for, since he did not speak Rohirric, but her brother shot her a quick look.

Hoping to sidestep any questions, Gúthwyn switched back into the Common Tongue and asked, "Has anyone seen Hammel or Haiweth lately?"

"Haiweth is playing with some friends," Éomer replied, "but I do not know where Hammel is."

"I saw him near the armory," Imrahil said unexpectedly. "He was talking to the blacksmith."

Gúthwyn knitted her brow. This was not the first time Hammel had gone to the armory without apparent reason. "The blacksmith?" she repeated, trying to remember what Aldeth's father looked like. "Was he an older man?"

Imrahil shook his head. "An apprentice, I believe."

Éomer glanced at her quizzically once more, but his attention was soon diverted by Elfwine trying to tug at his beard. "Want eat," the heir said impatiently.

The conversation continued in an idle manner, Éomer and Imrahil discussing the preparations for the tournament. The feast afterwards was to be held outside, assuming the weather held. Gúthwyn hoped it would—her brother had worked excessively hard on these plans, and she did not want them to go to waste.

In a short time the servant returned with Gúthwyn's food, a steaming bowl of vegetable soup. Much to her pleasure, she was slightly hungrier upon smelling it, and while she was listening to the others she managed to finish three-quarters of its contents without feeling sick. Éomer was noticeably pleased when he saw how much she had consumed, and included her shortly thereafter in the talk.

"Have you yet ridden Sceoh?" he inquired, concealing any hint of irritation with her admittedly inconvenient choice of mount.

Gúthwyn shook her head. "I was hoping to do so today," she said. "I spent some time with him yesterday, and I think he might be comfortable enough with me to go for a short ride."

"Is someone accompanying you?" Éomer asked, looking uneasy at the prospect of her on her own with a skittish stallion.

"I will be fine," Éomund's daughter hastily assured him. Though the guard at the gate, Balman, did not like her to go out of his sight when she rode, those times were the precious few hours that she had to herself. This was especially the case with so many visitors, whom as a hostess she was required to entertain. She had also been forced to alter the course she normally took throughout the fields, as a solid mass of tents had been pitched right where she was accustomed to gallop.

"Are you sure?" Éomer continued to press her. "Perhaps it would be better if a guard were to go with you."

Gúthwyn shot him a withering glare. "I am more than capable of riding by myself," she retorted.

What might have been a potential argument was diverted by Lothíriel asking her father about the presence of some nobles in his entourage, and the siblings receded into stony silence. Gúthwyn's anger was soon allayed by the sight of Elfwine, who had finished eating his potatoes and was now amusing himself by licking his hand. Ever so often he gave her a conspiratorial look and whacked Éomer's thigh, giggling each time his fist found purchase.

"Elfwine," Éomer admonished him after this had happened several times. "No."

Elfwine stuck his tongue out at his father, then pointed at Gúthwyn. "Want."

"I do not mind," Gúthwyn muttered when Éomer cast a half-questioning, half-exasperated look at her.

"What do you say, son?" Éomer asked.

"Peas!" Elfwine exclaimed ecstatically, and then shrieked in delight as he was handed over to his aunt. Gúthwyn found her arms suddenly full of a squirming, squealing child; she could not help but grin as he pulled at her hair, even though he was a tad bit overenthusiastic.

Imrahil chuckled at the display his grandson was putting on, yet Lothíriel did not seem amused in the slightest. Her tone was noticeably cooler when she asked Gúthwyn to pass the bread. Éomund's daughter obliged her, choosing to ignore the woman's frostiness, and instead spent the rest of the meal bouncing Elfwine on her legs and telling him odd little stories that she made up whenever he grew too loud.

After everyone was finished and they were preparing to leave the table, Éomer collected Elfwine from Gúthwyn but could not resist asking her, "Are you sure you do not want someone with you while you are riding? For all you know, Sceoh could throw you from his back or take off at a gallop, or—"

The longer he spoke, the more difficult it would be to convince him that a guard was unnecessary. "Brother," Gúthwyn interrupted him, "I will be fine. Elfhelm told me that he will bear you faithfully, if he trusts you enough to let you mount him in the first place. You worry too much."

Éomer gave her a mock glare. "If I hear one word about an accident, I shall not let you near the stables for a week."

Gúthwyn rolled her eyes and bade him farewell, her goodbyes somewhat delayed because Elfwine grabbed onto her hand while she was waving at him and refused to let go. When she had coaxed herself free she returned to her chambers and quickly changed into a riding outfit, hoping that she would actually get a chance to go out on the plains today. As of yesterday, she was able to touch Sceoh without making him panic, and she had led him through the empty streets during lunch, but there was no telling what might happen if something were to go amiss.

Upon venturing outside she was relieved to note that the crowds had not yet reappeared on the main road, but she had precious little time to get Sceoh through it before they did and she did not want to rush the process. Praying that all would go well, she quickened her steps to the stables and soon had passed through the entrance. Her eyes immediately fixed on her horse's stall, and she did not mark the presence of another until they spoke less than five feet away from her.

"Excellent," a cheery voice met her ears, causing her to jump in surprise. "I was hoping I might find you here."

Gúthwyn looked up in trepidation, knowing even before she did who had intruded upon her riding session.

_I need to have a word with you,_ she thought, glaring into the face of Amrothos.

Either not noticing her suddenly murderous expression or feigning ignorance, the prince leaned casually against a stall door and said smugly, "I take it you received my note."

His cockiness, his assuredness that she would now capitulate to his demands simply because he had found a way to reach her while she was sleeping was beyond infuriating. "What does it matter?" she snapped. "You are not going to change my mind. I will not give Éomer cause to be angered by my actions!"

"Since when have you been the docile one?" Amrothos retorted, arching an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that, while your sister has submitted to Faramir's yoke, you remain unfettered by the desires of any man."

To hear her sister being spoken of in such animalistic terms sparked a fury within her that she did not know she had. "Say another word about her and I _swear_ I will kill you," she snarled, stepping menacingly towards Amrothos. "You have no right—"

"Peace," he drawled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "You are remarkably uptight when conversing with people, did you know that? It is rather off-setting."

Gúthwyn glared at him, folding her arms across her chest. This only served to make his grin wider.

"On the other hand, you are very endearing when you are angry."

He was openly teasing her now. She felt humiliated at the paternalistic way he was toying with her emotions, comparing her fury—which was completely justified—to that of a child's when they do not get their own way.

"Is there a reason why you are here, or do you merely find it pleasurable to irritate me?" she at last growled.

"Oh, I do find your company enjoyable," Amrothos assured her, a gleam in his eye that she did not like at all, "but I have taken great pains to free my schedule so that I might be your escort for the afternoon."

His nerve was unbelievable. "You are _not_ going to be my escort!" she hissed. "I am more than capable of riding by myself, thank you very much!"

"Your brother does not seem to think so," Amrothos said, clearly amused by her response. "I overheard him interrogating… what was his name, Elfhelmet? I did not catch the gist of it, but it was something about your horse not being properly trained and more likely to throw you from its back…"

"Elf_helm_," Gúthwyn ground out between clenched teeth. "His name is Elfhelm."

Amrothos waved his hand carelessly in the air, as if to say that the Marshal was of little importance. "What matters is, I agree with your brother—it is not safe for you to be riding on your own with an untrained horse. You might fall."

"I thank you for your concern," Gúthwyn said icily, "but as I said, I am more than capable of riding by myself. Sceoh is not an untamed animal, he is simply nervous. In fact, I think he would be far more skittish if you were to join us."

"Is that because I make you skittish?" Amrothos asked softly.

Not wanting to admit how near to the mark he was, Gúthwyn frowned. "I am not skittish," she denied, but when he took a step closer to her she instinctively moved back.

"One might almost say," Amrothos began, studying her as though he could see into her very soul, "that you are as anxious as someone who has something to hide."

"Did you ever think," Gúthwyn demanded, inwardly panicking and trying to figure out what he was referring to, "that instead perhaps I genuinely dislike yourself and your company?"

"That is what they all say," Amrothos replied smoothly.

Gúthwyn had not the faintest idea of what he was speaking, and decided to abandon their conversation. Verbally sparring with him was a disaster waiting to happen; words had never been her best weapon, and she was so flustered in his presence that she was likely to fail miserably at it.

"If you will excuse me," she said stiffly, and could not resist adding, "I am confident that you can find the door by yourself."

"Now, is that any way to treat your guests?" Amrothos asked, adopting the sullen tone of someone who had been grievously wronged. "The king would not approve."

"He does not approve of many of my actions," Gúthwyn said, walking past him towards Sceoh's stall. She hoped that Amrothos would take the hint.

Unfortunately, he did not. There was a long silence, but when she was about to try putting a saddle on Sceoh she heard the distinct sound of a horse moving out of its stall. With a sinking heart, she looked over to see Amrothos guiding his steed to the doors, only to stop as if waiting for her.

Resisting the urge to scream in frustration, Gúthwyn decided to ignore him and concentrate on mounting Sceoh. Slipping into Rohirric, she murmured to the horse, "How would you feel about going on a ride today?"

Sceoh's response was to eye her apprehensively, but he did not flinch when she reached out and stroked his mane. "I know Elfhelm was able to put a saddle on you," she continued, recalling what the Marshal had told her. "This is nothing new, I promise."

As if to prove her point, she leaned over and picked up the saddle, holding it in front Sceoh for his inspection. He sniffed it tentatively and then withdrew, but she took heart from the fact that he did not step away. "I am going to put it on you," she said slowly, gradually moving to his side. She had managed to do this yesterday; she hoped he would be comfortable enough with her out of his sight to allow her to actually get the saddle on again.

Luckily, Sceoh did not move while she prepared him for the upcoming ride, save for once or twice when Amrothos tried to speak to her. Sceoh clearly liked the prince as much as she did; every time the man so much as cleared his throat he stamped his feet against the ground and snorted nervously. Gúthwyn debated whether or not to tell Amrothos to leave, but she had already done so and he had not obeyed, so why would he listen to her now?

Nevertheless, his presence was an increasing vexation, one that she tried and failed to feign obliviousness to as she told Sceoh that she was going to mount him. Exhaling slowly to diffuse her exasperation, for she knew the horse would sense it, she placed her hand on his back and a foot in the stirrups. Sceoh started at this and tried to move forward, but she managed to calm him down with a few words in Rohirric.

Hoping the rest of her plan would go off without a hitch, Gúthwyn took a deep breath and swung her other leg over the saddle. Much to her relief, Sceoh did not take fright and bolt—which, despite her confident words to Éomer, she had been half afraid he would do. Luckily, her weight was still relatively insignificant to the horse, though she was no longer as thin as she had been in the days when she had all but starved herself.

"Now," she muttered, only half to Sceoh, "let us see if we can get out of the stables. Ignore the prince; he is an ignorant fool, and soon we will not have to deal with him. If only we could gallop…"

It was a tempting thought, but she did not want them to go at such speed without first having trotted together. Firmly banishing all images of leaving Amrothos behind in a cloud of dust that would certainly stain his fancy cloak, Gúthwyn guided Sceoh out of the stall and towards the doors.

"Be calm," she said as her horse skittered around the prince, pulling on the reins to slow down. Her speech was still in Rohirric; she hoped that Amrothos would realize that his company was not welcome, and inconvenience her no further by maintaining that ridiculous presumption that he could ride with her.

Unfortunately, the prince was either a dolt or completely bent on infuriating her, for no sooner had she cleared the doors with Sceoh than she heard him urging on his own horse. Gúthwyn sighed, bringing Sceoh to a halt. "Amrothos," she said sharply, turning around and finally addressing him in the Common Tongue—which, luckily, most of her people did not understand, and thus few would be able to discern her anger—"I appreciate your concern for my safety, but I do not need, nor want, a guard."

"It is a good thing I am not a guard, then," Amrothos agreed cheerfully, blissfully unaware of her newfound hatred of him.

"Nor do I desire a riding partner," she added significantly, praying he would get the message this time and abandon his antics.

The former happened; the latter did not. "Your brother would not be very pleased to discover your hostilities toward his most esteemed guests," he smirked. "And I daresay you cannot afford any more scandals… or do you want your riding privileges taken away, as well?"

For a moment, Gúthwyn briefly contemplated seizing the nearest sharp object and thoroughly spearing the obnoxious, arrogant, contemptuous prince before her, but she had a feeling that Éomer would rescind more than her freedom to ride if she followed through on the urge sweeping her entire body. Instead she glared at Amrothos, all but throwing daggers with her fiery gaze, but he only chuckled at her expression.

"Besides," he finished, still laughing, "your brother told us that we were more than welcome to venture outside the city gates. I fully intend to exercise this right in the presence of a beautiful woman—and I will not take no for an answer."

In response, Gúthwyn kicked Sceoh into not quite a trot, but as fast a walk as she could manage without hurting any of the people on the streets. Her cheeks were flaming red from Amrothos's blatant compliment—if indeed anyone could call it that—and the more she tried to ignore him, the more conscious she was of his being there. He shadowed her closely until the street widened, and then he drew right up alongside her.

"Why will you not compete in the tournament?" he asked.

Gúthwyn closed her eyes, forcing herself to remain calm. "I am not allowed to," she answered shortly, noting uneasily that Sceoh had tensed beneath her. "You are frightening my horse."

Obligingly, Amrothos steered his mount a few paces to the left. "Again, since when have you obeyed your brother's every command?"

"I obey him so that he will not be disappointed in me," Gúthwyn snapped. "Nor do I wish him to anger him with foolish action. I suppose you would not understand."

Amrothos chuckled, skirting the barely-veiled reference to his personal life. "You told me that you still desired Elphir. Has your interest waned?"

"I do care for him," Gúthwyn admitted, "but there are better ways of capturing his attention."

"Not just his attention," Amrothos reminded her as they approached the gates. "His admiration, as well."

Gúthwyn sighed. She did want to enter the tournament; yet despite Amrothos's confident words, she had a feeling that Elphir would not be as overawed by her presence as his youngest brother predicted. The man she had once counted as her friend was gone, replaced by a cold-hearted stranger who had frowned at her for having a married champion. And that was to say nothing of Éomer—if he found out that she was even thinking of disguising herself and fighting, he would lock her in her chambers and refuse to let her out until the tournament was over.

Luckily, she was prevented from having to answer Amrothos by Balman opening the gates for them. She waved at the guard as she passed out of the city, now glad that he insisted on keeping such a close watch on her whenever she went riding. Logically, she had nothing to worry about… and yet she could not help being nervous whenever Amrothos was near.

"Well?" the prince prompted her after another moment had gone by.

"What?" she all but growled, causing Sceoh to quicken his pace. Cursing herself for her insensitivity, she pulled on the reins until her horse stopped. "I am sorry," she whispered to him, stroking his mane.

"Are you still willing to get Elphir's attention?" Amrothos asked, ignoring Sceoh's anxiety and moving even closer to her.

"Yes," Gúthwyn muttered, not wanting to admit how embarrassed she was by this conversation, "but there are other ways to do it than by tossing aside my brother's wishes."

"How so?" Amrothos challenged her. "I gave you a dress that would have turned the heads of even the most faithful husbands, had you worn it with any semblance of confidence, but instead you spent the entire time trying to cover yourself up. You have attempted to speak with him, yet he ignores you, and makes a point of avoiding all of your favorite haunts. I know my brother. No matter how often you seek him out, he will never hold audience with you. Unless you use bodily force"—he smirked at Gúthwyn's small stature—"nothing in all of Middle-earth would convince him to."

Éomund's daughter was beginning to like this new Elphir less and less.

"Thus," Amrothos concluded, "short of concocting a life-threatening situation for you in which my brother is forced to save you through some daring act of chivalry, there really is no other option."

Gúthwyn was already shaking her head. "I am not doing it," she said firmly. There _had_ to be some other way of getting Elphir to talk to her. She would find the means to do so. All she needed was some time—time that she was currently wasting listening to the idiotic plans of the prince beside her.

"Enough," she said wearily as Amrothos opened his mouth again. "Let us finish this ride."

To her surprise, he assented, and she did not hear a word about the tournament until later that evening.


	93. Method of Payment

**A/N:** One last reminder, I'm changing my penname to **anolinde**. When the next chapter is posted, it will be under **anolinde** rather than WhiteLadyOfTroy, which will no longer exist on this site. So, don't worry, I'll still be here - just as **anolinde**!**  
**

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ninety-Three:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Ninety-Three**

With a groan of frustration Gúthwyn slid into a grey gown, glaring at her reflection in the mirror before her. The afternoon's ride had been a complete and total disaster. Amrothos had refused to move his horse more than five feet away from her, and as a result Sceoh's nerves—not the strongest in the first place—had failed him within minutes. Gúthwyn had spent the duration of the exercise trying to calm him down, but she had had no luck and instead had almost gotten thrown from his back.

It certainly had not helped matters that she had been nearly as anxious as her mare. Utterly unconcerned about the havoc he was wreaking on his companion's mind, Amrothos had maintained a steady stream of flirtatious conversation, once going so far as to glance at her amusedly and say, "I like a woman with a spark in her temper."

Her cheeks flushed, Gúthwyn bent over and pulled on some shoes. His comment had come shortly after Sceoh had tried to bolt again, during which she was certain she had let loose a fairly colored string of Rohirric obscenities. Éomer would have been horrified to hear acting in that manner around his guests, but quite frankly Gúthwyn would have been happier if Amrothos had decided to avoid her like the rest of his people.

She sighed. Tomorrow—no, the day after tomorrow, for the tournament was set to start the next morning—she would not make the mistake of allowing Amrothos to come with her. Regardless of how much he persisted, she would not permit him to join her. She had learned her lesson on that matter, thanks to Sceoh.

Straightening, Gúthwyn took a deep breath to compose herself for another uncomfortable dinner with the delegation of Dol Amroth and Legolas's Elves. There was to be dancing tonight, as well. _Excellent,_ she thought dryly. _Another excuse for Amrothos to annoy me._ Not that he lacked for those.

Hoping that the evening would not end in her humiliating herself, a disconcertingly common occurrence these days, she left her chambers and passed into the great hall, where as usual she was overwhelmed by the amount of occupants and chatter within its confines. Her only comfort was that she could see Éomer and several other familiar faces, though the bright gowns of the Dol Amroth women threw her people into the shadows.

Due to Lothíriel having control of the seating, Gúthwyn's chair was again as far away from her brother and nephew as was reasonable, and of course she was sitting next to Amrothos. Éomund's daughter had the sneaking suspicion that Lothíriel knew fully well how ill at ease her rival was around the prince—why else would they be thrown together so often, when the others were frequently rotated around?

The person to her left was, unfortunately, Lady Míriel, no doubt another result of Lothíriel's scheming. Gúthwyn did not know what sort of relationship the queen and Tulkadan's wife had had before Lothíriel's departure to Rohan, but it was clear to see that the two women detested each other. On more than one occasion, she had seen hideous glares exchanged between them, though when she had asked Éomer he had shrugged his shoulders and said that Lady Míriel was a shameless gossip.

_Are you sure that it is not your spouse you are speaking of?_ Gúthwyn inquired silently, repressing the urge to grimace as she approached the table. Legolas caught her eye and smiled, reminding her that at least she had one ally in this whole mess. Cobryn was another; unfortunately, he had also been strategically placed so that conversation with him was impossible.

Taking her seat before Amrothos could pull it out for her, Gúthwyn glanced warily at the dishes on the table. Most of them were fish, but luckily they had all been properly skinned this time, unlike last night. She shuddered, recalling with horror how the trout's eyes had stared at her the entire time she was eating. It was all she could do to restrain herself from screaming at Éomer and demanding to know why her food had been watching her—though a carefully placed comment had made him realize that perhaps the preparations were best done in a different manner.

Once her brother began eating, she reached forward and took some bread, searching for the soup but abandoning her hopes of obtaining it when she saw that it was at the other end of the table. This was rather regrettable, for she would have less of a reason not to answer Amrothos when he spoke to her. There was a possibility that she might be able to start a conversation with Legolas, though currently he was talking to Raniean, and she knew that the other Elf would not appreciate a human interrupting them.

"Will you pass the trout?"

A sugary sweet voice met her ears, startling her until she recognized the speaker. Much to her surprise, it was Lady Míriel, who normally went out of her way to shun Éomund's daughter.

"Of course," Gúthwyn said, recovering quickly enough to hand her the platter without seeming slow.

"Thank you," Míriel said in the same perplexing tone. Gúthwyn was nearly dazzled by the brilliant white teeth that shone in her direction. "Are you greatly anticipating the tournament tomorrow?" the woman continued, ladling some of the fish onto her plate. Éomund's daughter noticed that her eyes were darting around the table, as if looking for something.

"Y-Yes, I am," Gúthwyn replied, bewildered as to what had brought about this sudden change in their relationship. "Are you?"

"Of course," Lady Míriel beamed, setting aside the trout. "My husband is representing me, naturally, and I do hope that he will hold his own against the others, but there are so many talented warriors out there that he shall surely be challenged." She gave an appraising look at her husband, who by now was listening in, as if to say that, in fact, he would have very few troubles defeating his opponents. "Do you have a champion?" she asked.

"Oh—" Gúthwyn flushed, keenly aware that Amrothos was observing her reactions closely. "I do not know," she finished weakly. "The man I used to consider mine is now married."

"In any case," Amrothos cut in with a smirk, causing her to nearly groan, "Lady Gúthwyn would much rather carry her own favor than rely upon a soldier to do so."

She could have slapped him. Lady Míriel and Lord Tulkadan's appalled expressions were a mirror of each other's; thanks to the insolent prince, any chance at a normal conversation was now ruined.

"Surely, you cannot mean that you desire to fight?" Lady Míriel asked, her eyes holding Amrothos's and widening in shock. "Amongst all the men?"

"I enjoy wielding a sword," Gúthwyn admitted, doing everything in her power to keep herself from glaring at Amrothos.

"I do not doubt that," Lord Tulkadan said thinly, "but my wife is quite justified in her surprise—after all, one might consider a woman's strength questionable compared to that of a man's, and it shall be a long tournament."

In spite of herself, Gúthwyn felt her anger flare up at this chauvinistic attitude. Her irritation with Amrothos spilled over into her retort as she remarked, "I think you will find that not at all the case, when she has had proper training."

"A few brawls with your brother's men can hardly be considered proper training," Lord Tulkadan pointed out, now openly disapproving of her actions. "Nor is it appropriate for someone with a lady's status to be doing so."

"Perhaps you have already forgotten that my sister was a shieldmaiden in her right," Gúthwyn snapped, "and that by her hands the Witch-king of Angmar was slain. She was every bit as capable as you to fight in a tournament, if not more so, and I have always strived to follow in her footsteps."

Having never encountered this type of resistance by a woman, Lord Tulkadan looked thoroughly irritated as he replied, "Your sister was simply in the right place at the right time. It was by the grace of the Valar—"

"It was by her courageousness," Gúthwyn all but snarled, "and I hope that you are not trying to suggest otherwise. Clearly it is different in your land, but in the Riddermark noblewomen are given the same chances as their brothers. If we were to come to blows now, _my lord_, it is not impossible that I would emerge the victor."

Lord Tulkadan chuckled, as a father might do upon hearing the boastful claims of his child. "No one is saying that your proficiency with a sword is not remarkable," he said smoothly, "but you must admit that your sparring matches cannot be a true measure of your skill."

Gúthwyn's eyes narrowed. "How so?" she interrogated him.

There was a small hesitation.

"What he means to say," Lady Míriel broke in, exchanging a knowing glance with her husband, "is that you must realize that none of your brother's men would dare to hurt you. It is hardly a fair fight."

Outrage, in the purest sense of the word, coursed through every single one of Gúthwyn's veins upon hearing this. "You know little of my sparring matches," she said fiercely, "but I can assure you that I have made it very clear to them that I will not be cosseted by their fear."

"As you wish." Lord Tulkadan shrugged indulgently, only evoking her ire even more. To make matters worse, he turned away to speak with another noble, leaving her to stew in silence. It would be immature of her to renew the debate, but how she desired to make him see the error of his ways… if only she could have sparred with him on the training grounds and shown him how foolish he was being!

_How dare he?_ she seethed, ignoring Amrothos's amused glances and Lady Míriel's shrewd ones. _Does he truly think that the other men let me win? Is he so close-minded that he cannot accept that a woman might be superior to him in terms of wielding a blade?_

Then a sobering thought crashed into her: what if the soldiers _were_ easier on her, because she was Éomer's sister and none of them wished to face his wrath? Gúthwyn knew fully well that any injuries she might suffer on the training grounds were not to be blamed on the men, for quite frankly she had given them more than their fair share, yet given her position it was not difficult to imagine that they were reluctant to return the favor.

_They would never do that,_ she tried to convince herself. _They know that I can hold my own against them; they know they do not need to protect me._

_What about Tun?_

Gúthwyn frowned, recalling how her champion had frequently held back his strength so that he would not harm her. But that was just Tun, who had been in love with her—surely his fellow warriors did not have such reservations?

_Perhaps they do, and are simply less vocal about it._

She was about to shush this infuriating voice in her head when she suddenly realized that she had won almost every single sparring match she had participated in over the years. Although her training with Borogor had been extensive and she had had more practice with weapons in three years than most men had in their lifetime, it was not entirely feasible that she should so easily enjoy victory. Was there truth, then, in Lord Tulkadan's words?

_Do not be ridiculous,_ she told herself. _Your triumphs are hard won. Éomer, Elfhelm, Erkenbrand, and Gamling have all beaten you before. They were not restraining themselves then, were they?_

These reassurances, however, did not explain the revelation that she had never been injured at the training grounds. She had never fallen, never received a blow to any part of her body—and while punches and kicks were, as a silent rule, forbidden, it was not uncommon for the warriors to strike their opponent with the hilt of their sword. This had never happened to Gúthwyn.

"_Your sparring matches cannot be a true measure of your skill."_

Lord Tulkadan's words echoed hauntingly, infuriatingly, in her ears. What if they were not? What if she had been fooled the past five years, thinking that she was winning because of her own talent? What if the men really had been treating her differently from their comrades? If she asked any of them, they would steadfastly deny it. But what if they were? How would she know which fights she truly won, versus the ones she had been allowed to win?

At this point, she was nearly beside herself with irritation. _Damn you, Lord Tulkadan,_ she thought angrily. If only she could somehow ascertain whether or not the men were putting forth their full might… yet mere observation would not do. She had watched the Marshals, for instance, sparring together, and there were both similarities and differences in the fighting between the two men. She would not be able to discern anything from scrutiny.

All of a sudden, her eyes widened. _The tournament,_ she thought excitedly, hardly able to believe that such a convenient solution had been right in front of her the entire time. With each warrior required to wear a helmet obscuring their features, it would be all too easy to slip into the ranks and enter herself. Since no one would be aware of her identity, there was nothing to stop them from utilizing all of their force against her. It was a foolproof way of discovering whether the men considered her their equal.

Yet just as quickly as it had swelled up, the bubble of her enthusiasm was punctured. If she won—indeed, if she just made it to the last round—she would have to reveal herself. The thought of Éomer's expression as he beheld her was enough to make her doubt the intelligence of her plan. She had told Amrothos over and over again that she would not risk her brother's displeasure for the sake of attracting Elphir's attention.

_But this is not to make Elphir notice you,_ part of her silently argued. _Do you want to spend the rest of your life doubting your prowess with a sword? Wondering, every time you win a match, if it was because your opponent did not wish to hurt you? You know the men would never admit to treating you differently. Yet if you were to conceal yourself, all of your queries would be answered._

_This is folly!_ another side of her retorted. _You are just using your insecurities as an excuse to enter the tournament! If you had none, you would have simply found another means of justification. Amrothos was right all along—it would take next to nothing to convince you to disobey your brother! Why will you not listen to reason, instead of the murmurings of a prince whom you distrust? Éomer would lock you in your chambers if he had any idea that you were even contemplating this matter!_

Just as quickly, the other half snapped, _Éomer is being overprotective, as usual. No doubt he has been waiting all these years for a chance to prohibit you from training with the men._

To his credit, Gúthwyn did not believe that Éomer had ever really held back when they sparred together. He had recognized her skill from their very first match; the two of them were of equal ability, and of all the warriors she had lost to him the most. But the fact remained that he was also her brother, and thereby charged with her care. To that end, he was forbidding her from doing what she loved most, and she was tired of it. She was not a complete and total idiot, as he seemed to believe she was regarding courtly manners. How long had she survived without him, trapped in the abysmal realms of Isengard and Mordor? She had endured far more than he had, whether it be in terms of physical or emotional stress. To have him presume so much as to control her life was an insult.

In the end, it was a hand on her shoulder that forced her out of her musings. She jumped, nearly tipping over her chair when she realized that it was Amrothos. "What?" she asked, more harshly than perhaps she should have. At the same time, she shrugged out of his reach.

"Éomer has been trying to get your attention for the past minute," he whispered in her ear, causing her to almost cringe in revulsion at the contact.

"Yes, brother?" she called down the table, wondering what Éomer could possibly have to say to her that was so pressing he risked being rude by talking over others' conversations.

"Why are you not eating?" was his response, stated concernedly in Rohirric. His eyes fixed on her plate, upon which was a half-consumed slice of bread.

A flash of ire sparked inside of her. Was it so impossible for her to go a few minutes without touching her food and not be accused of starving herself? Unable to come up with a reply that was not scathing, she simply shrugged and tore off a piece of the bread. Annoyed that he was watching her every movement, she bit into it and swallowed, repeating the process a few more times until at last he was distracted by Imrahil asking him about the tournament seating.

_See what I mean? All he ever does is cosset you. Why not do something for yourself? You want to enter the tournament! Why not? Why should his fear—or perhaps it is lack of confidence in your abilities—hold you back? It is about time he stopped being so controlling!_

She remained absorbed in her musings for the rest of the dinner. Surprisingly, Amrothos did not attempt to draw her out of her shell; he, too, was silent, though now and then he looked at her with an amused smile. She supposed that her frustration was all too visible. _No doubt Éomer shall reprimand me for it later in the evening,_ she thought bitterly.

At long last, everyone had finished with their meals, and a group of musicians had struck up a merry tune. Before much time had gone by, Gúthwyn found herself to be one of the few people still at her table. Imrahil, Elfwine, Amrothos, and the Elves were her sole companions—she could hardly count the advisors, when all they were interested in discussing was something utterly boring, such as trade with Gondor or whatnot.

_Or my marriage prospects,_ she thought glumly, staring at her relatively empty plate. She could not believe that Éomer was so insistent on wedding her off to a noble of some distant realm. _Why would anyone want me?_ she interrogated him in her mind. _I may be young, but I have two children and outside of Rohan, I could likely count on one hand the number of people who do not think I gave birth to them. No upstanding, respectable lord or prince would desire to have me as their wife._

Perhaps that was why Elphir had given up on her. Maybe he had finally started believing the rumors of her promiscuity—after all, one did not need to look very far to find "evidence." It was not as if she kept Hammel and Haiweth hidden from the rest of Middle-earth. The fact that she and Haiweth were so affectionate did not do much for her position, either.

The knowledge that few outside of the Mark trusted her enough to marry her came only as a small relief. If Éomer wanted to, he could easily wed her to one of his soldiers. Both of the Marshals and his Captain were still without a partner; despite the fact that all of them were at least twenty years her senior, and that she had already refused the advances of two of them, if her brother pressed for a union between her and one of his best friends no one was in a position to refuse him.

She did not think that Erkenbrand would ever be chosen as her husband. Their loyalty to Tun was too strong; together, their objections would override Éomer's wishes. But if they believed that she returned their feelings, Gamling and Elfhelm might be persuaded to try for her hand again. Who would she be, then, to deny them, especially when her prospects were running low? It was so mercenary, so cold-hearted, that every fiber of her being revolted against the idea.

A sigh escaped her. Who knew what Éomer would do, if he was struck by a particular mood? For the first time in their lives, her brother had given her cause to fear him. He was not the type of man who would force her into a marriage simply because he felt like it, but he had been trying to get her a husband ever since his own wedding and she was afraid that he might suddenly decide he had delayed too long.

"May I have this dance?"

The request startled her with its suddenness; she almost groaned to realize that it was Amrothos who had spoken.

"I am tired," she informed the prince bluntly. Legolas noticed their exchange and knitted his brow, but did not say anything.

Amrothos snorted. "Are you still holding that childish grudge against me because of the dress? Who am I speaking to, Gúthwyn or Haiweth?"

Just hearing him utter Haiweth's name was enough to make her blood boil, and she glared fiercely at his mirthful gaze. "I am tired," she repeated. "I do not wish to dance with you."

"And if someone better—perhaps Tun or Cobryn—came along, your fatigue would dissipate?"

Gúthwyn stiffened. "What are you talking about?" she demanded harshly, only vaguely aware that Legolas was watching them with a frown on his face. Was Amrothos trying to hint at something, by invoking the names of her champion and the man she had been accused of having an affair with?

Her answer was another one of those infuriating winks. "I have heard rumors," he whispered, leaning in so that Legolas could not hear. She alone knew that his efforts were futile, for Elves' ears were unnaturally keen. "It seems that your people are not as loyal to you as you have mentioned… the streets are rank with gossip."

"Gossip is rarely true," she snapped, her cheeks burning.

"Yet it always has its roots in fact," Amrothos countered, smirking. "Besides, even if what I have heard is veritable, I am not going to complain. May I now have this dance?"

"No!" Gúthwyn cried, somewhat louder than she had intended. She had never loathed Amrothos more. How was it that he managed to get under her skin so effectively? Abruptly, she pushed her chair back and stood up. "Excuse me," she said, fully intending to find Cobryn and not leave his side for the rest of the evening.

Much to her horror, Amrothos also rose to his feet, and stepped out so that her progress was hindered. "Allow me to accompany you to join the other dancers," he murmured, offering her his arm, "for you are clearly no longer tired. Perhaps we could discuss the tournament?"

Gúthwyn was seriously considering slapping him—anything to be rid of his irritating person, even if it risked scandal—when all of a sudden she paused. If she were to enter the tournament tomorrow, she needed to both obtain suitable gear and find a way to slip from her seat, unnoticed, as the contest of swordsmanship approached. If Éomer had learned anything from Dunharrow, he would certainly have told his men to inform him if his _baby sister_ was seen anywhere near the armory. Nor, she suspected, would she be permitted to leave his side without an escort to ensure that she did not get into any trouble.

"As you wish," she announced, too busy congratulating herself on having thought of this detail to observe Amrothos's utter lack of surprise. Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, she accepted the prince's arm, refusing to show her disgust when his flesh touched hers and they began walking. A quick glance at the couples revealed that she could decently perform the steps they were doing and not make a fool out of herself.

Mimicking the others' positions as they reached the dancing area, Amrothos rested a hand on the curve of her waist and placed his left on her shoulder, drawing her close to him and making her uncomfortable in his overwhelming presence. She could smell the mead on his breath, and did her best not to cringe.

"I have decided to enter," she said before he could open his mouth. Over the musicians, no one else was able to hear her.

A gratified smile tugged at his lips. "So, you have finally come to your senses."

Gúthwyn did not care to mention that she was not doing it to win his brother's desire once more. "I need your help," she confessed through gritted teeth.

Amrothos whirled her around, his movements so quick that she almost lost her balance. "Why might that be?" he asked with a self-satisfied smirk.

Trying to ignore how humiliating it was to have to be asking Amrothos for assistance, Gúthwyn replied, "Éomer will not let me out of his sight until the sword fighting is well underway—not unless I have an escort to keep me from joining the men. I also have to get a helmet, and I cannot go to the armory without attracting attention."

"And what will I get for performing these services?" Amrothos inquired, flashing her a roguish and entirely unhelpful grin.

Gúthwyn looked at him in confusion.

"It will be very difficult work, sneaking off with two suits when I am only one competitor," Amrothos said mischievously, "not to mention bearing the brunt of Éomer's anger when he finds out that I let his dear little sister run off to play with the big, strong warriors."

She glared at him, realizing that he was just doing this to lord her debt over her. "Aside from my sword and my horse, what do you want?"

"I will think about it," he said smoothly. "My price will depend on how much trouble I encounter along the way."

"Would it kill you to be cooperative for once?" Gúthwyn hissed, despising the idea of owing him anything—especially an unknown item. She had no money, and dresses were of small use to a prince. What else could he possibly ask for?

Amrothos lifted an eyebrow. "Would you rather have to do it all by yourself?"

Gúthwyn sighed in annoyance. "Fine," she ground out, feeling as secure as if she had just signed a treacherous bargain with Sauron.

Only adding to her discomfort, Amrothos smiled and drew her closer to him, brushing a lock of her hair back from her ear so that she was able to hear him better. "You will not regret this," he whispered, oblivious to her flinch.

Lest anyone should see them and get the wrong impression, Gúthwyn stepped away from the bold prince and said coldly, "I better not."

His confident grin only made her stomach roll uneasily.


	94. Waltz Rescue

**A/N: **I've made a small adjustment to Chapter Eighty-Seven, "Repercussions." There is a brief addition to Éomer and Prince Imrahil's discussion about Amrothos - nothing major, but something that I felt was important.

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: Anolinde**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ninety-Four:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Ninety-Four**

Gúthwyn winced as Amrothos guided her through another turn, struggling not to show how much the dance was wearing on her nerves. After she had extracted from him the promise to help her enter the tournament tomorrow, she had not seen much point in lingering with him, but he had insisted on having the next waltz, and the one after that. She was hardly tired, as she had uselessly claimed to be, but every time he touched her she could feel her anxiety increasing.

In addition to this constant unease, there was also the small matter of her creating more of a fool of herself the longer she remained dancing, for her fear affected the quickness of her feet and caused her to forget the proper steps. Since she already had trouble remembering most of them in the first place, she was now the unofficial laughingstock of the entire hall.

To make matters even worse—as if they were not bad enough!—Amrothos had insisted on giving her all sorts of embarrassing compliments, ranging from awkward ("you are breathtaking tonight") to downright disgusting and degrading (referring to the men around him, "they all envy the one who finally marries you—preferably my brother—and gets to take you to his bed"). This last comment had distressed her so much that, though he had said it over a minute ago, Gúthwyn had not heard a single remark since. Her mind was racing with terror, her heart pounding; what had she ever done to deserve this?

"Are you listening to a word that I am saying?"

Amrothos's half-amused, half-insulted voice grated in her ears and she flinched, instinctively pulling away from him. This, of course, completely threw them out of sync with the music, warranting more than a few glares from the Dol Amroth delegation. Far more preferable were the good-natured laughs of the guards, most of whom were far too used to her mishaps to find them offensive. Gúthwyn's cheeks soon developed a rosy hue, reflecting her mortification at the attention, but such feelings paled to the fresh wave of humiliation that swelled within her when Amrothos drew her back into his arms.

"Well?" he prompted her, ignoring the shiver that ran through her entire body at his touch.

Miserably, Gúthwyn tried to conjure up an escape from her situation, but with Amrothos's dark, expectant eyes watching her she could do little other than swallow and stammer, "I-I was lost in m-my thoughts."

He did not look as if he believed her at all. With a small smirk, he tightened his hold on her and adjusted his stance so that, Gúthwyn realized in horror, their bodies were as close as could be reasonably considered appropriate. She was far too conscious of his hands upon her, his ale-tinged breath and the way his eyes never seemed to leave her. Familiar sensations of nausea began plaguing her… by the Valar, when had the air become this suffocating? She could barely draw breath, and she felt like she might faint from the heat.

_Please,_ she prayed frantically, _let this dance be over, let someone pull him away from me… surely this cannot be right? Éomer, Cobryn, anyone…_

Neither Éomer nor Cobryn appeared to rescue her from Amrothos's grasp, but at that moment she caught sight of Legolas standing several yards in front of her, talking to Trelan. The glimpse of golden hair, once responsible for many a nervous breakdown, was now cause for her heart to leap in joy. It was a mark of how much she hated Amrothos that she was willing to substitute him for the Elf who was a living copy of Haldor.

_Look over here,_ she silently willed Legolas, staring at the prince and hoping he would feel her eyes burning into him. _Please, look over here!_

At long last, after what must have been an eternity, Legolas either became aware of her gaze or happened to glance in her direction. It hardly mattered how he came to see her; as soon as their eyes met, she mouthed, "Help me!" and tilted her head towards Amrothos.

The ploy worked. Legolas nodded and, excusing himself from Trelan, began wending his way around the dancers. Gúthwyn exhaled in relief as he neared her, barely able to believe her luck. Amrothos's touch became nigh unbearable in the last few seconds of their contact, each finger upon the fabric of her gown a deadweight, until…

"Begging your pardon, but may I cut in?"

A thousand bricks were lifted from Gúthwyn's shoulders when Amrothos's grip on her loosened. The young prince took in the Elf—who would have been an intimidating enough sight without the rather stern expression in his gaze—and conceded, stepping away from Éomund's daughter and saying, "As you wish."

Without another word he strode into the crowd, soon disappearing amongst the throng.

"Thank you so much," Gúthwyn breathed as she joined hands with Legolas. "You have no idea…"

Legolas smiled at her. "I am glad to be of service," he replied. His tone turned darker as he inquired, "What had he done?"

Gúthwyn shrugged, trying to forget the doubled-edged sword that was a compliment from Amrothos. "I cannot stand being near him," she confessed, allowing Legolas to guide her through a turn. "It is difficult to explain, but he…" At a loss for words, she shrugged. All she really wanted to do was clear her head of the memories.

Legolas did not press her to finish the sentence. Instead, he helped her with another turn and asked quietly, "Is there a reason why he has singled you out?"

"What do you mean?" Gúthwyn questioned, her heart beginning to race. Was their conspiring together that obvious?

"I overheard Cobryn mentioning to your brother that Amrothos had been spending a considerable amount of time with you," Legolas admitted. "I did not give it much thought until I bore witness to your discussion about the dress. That was when I saw how eager you were to be away from him—you barely hesitated before agreeing to dance with me."

Gúthwyn flushed. There was no accusatory tone in the Elf's voice, but it was an unspoken fact that her willingness to be with him was only to avoid the companionship of an utterly loathsome man. She felt embarrassed that this was the case, that she could not even come up with a decent lie and assure Legolas that she would have been pleased to waltz with him regardless of the circumstances.

"He does make an effort to be in my presence," she allowed. "I am not sure why."

The last sentence was a lie—Amrothos had blatantly told her that he wanted to use her as a pawn in his struggle against marriage with his father, for he hoped that by wedding her to his eldest son Prince Imrahil would not give so much thought to the affairs of his youngest. A large part of her bristled at being considered a tool of Amrothos's designs, but since she, too, also stood something to gain from his involvement, she could hardly complain.

When Legolas next spoke, his words were tentative. "If you ever are in need of… of reprieve from his company, I will be more than happy to assist you."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened at this offer. She could hardly believe his generosity, when she had done little to merit it. "R-Really?" she asked, gazing up at him in surprise. Feeling as though she was morally obligated to tell him not to trouble himself, she said quickly, "You do not have to, I will be fine—"

"My offer remains open," Legolas said firmly. "He has no reason to be treating you so improperly."

Gúthwyn bit her lip, trying not to look too relieved. If truth be told, she was ecstatic to have an escape from Amrothos's attention—yet she wondered what Legolas would think, if he knew that she had been plotting with Imrahil's youngest son to win Elphir back into her arms. Not that she intended on her former betrothed going that far, of course.

"Thank you," she murmured at last. "I…"

_Know not how I deserve this,_ she filled in silently. The word slipped through her mouth before she could stop it: "Why?"

"It would be very difficult for me to watch your uneasiness around him and not do something to assist you," Legolas replied.

Éomund's daughter flushed, secretly pleased by this chivalry and trying to conceal how happy she felt at finally being able to avoid Amrothos. "Thank you," she said again, managing a genuine smile for what felt like the first time since Imrahil's arrival.

"It was my pleasure," Legolas replied, and then deftly changed the subject with a nod to the table she had just been sitting at. "Elfwine has grown since I last saw him."

Amrothos was temporarily forgotten in favor of her nephew, and a warm glow spread across her cheeks as she responded happily, "Is he not adorable? He is learning to walk—he still has to crawl up the stairs, but if he is holding onto someone's hands he is fine. Once he actually learns, he will get into everything; I daresay Éomer and Lothíriel will have to pay extra close attention to that! They are so lucky to have him, he really is wonderful…"

She shut her mouth when she became aware that she was babbling, and flushed a bright pink. "I am sorry," she apologized, "I did not mean to speak so much…" To add to her embarrassment, she tripped over her own feet in the midst of a step and nearly stumbled into Legolas.

"I do not mind," Legolas assured her, steadying her effortlessly. "Please, continue. Has he learned any new words?"

Relieved that he had not thought her rambling offensive, but determined not to make the same mistake twice, Gúthwyn answered, "Yes, many. He loves to say 'eat' and 'horse,' though 'no' is another one of his favorites."

Legolas chuckled at this. "He also seems quite fond of your name," he remarked.

Surely it was the more modest course of action to demurely agree, but a broad grin spread across Gúthwyn's face, and she could not conceal the joy of knowing that Elfwine loved her as much as she loved him. "I do not intend to begrudge Éomer his good fortune, but I do sometimes wish that I could call his son my own," she admitted. "Any parent would be blessed to have him."

Smiling at her fervor, Legolas agreed, "I am sure they would."

"What about you?" Gúthwyn asked, praising herself for managing to pose the question without panicking. "Are you interested in having children?"

Too late, she realized that her inquiry was rather personal, yet Legolas did not seem affronted. "I would need a wife to do that," he pointed out wryly, "and I have not given the matter much thought, but yes, I would like a son."

"Not a daughter?" Gúthwyn wanted to know, puzzled and slightly irked by his preference of the other gender.

"I do not know much about women," the prince confessed sheepishly. "I fear I would not be able to raise a girl properly."

For a moment, Gúthwyn tried to picture Legolas attempting to take care of someone like Haiweth, who was absolutely determined to have their own way regardless of the circumstances, and she was hard put to keep herself from laughing. Somehow, she doubted that the Elf would have an easier time caring for a child than he would annihilating an entire army of Orcs.

"It is not too difficult," she informed him, thinking of how she had kept Haiweth disciplined—well, disciplined was a rather loose interpretation—over the years. The girl was relatively low-maintenance, despite being somewhat immature for her age.

Legolas laughed. "You are lucky in that regard," he pointed out. "Haiweth is very well-mannered."

Gúthwyn beamed at this praise, delighted that the child had been on her best behavior all month. Legolas noticed her pride and grinned, seeming genuinely pleased with her happiness. She was about to thank him—albeit belatedly—for the compliment and say that she would pass it on to Haiweth, but just then the dance ended, and she expressed her gratitude to him for helping her evade Amrothos instead.

"You do not have to thank me," Legolas replied firmly, lowering her hands. "I was glad to help."

They parted ways after that, and as Gúthwyn began walking back to the table she found that she was humming a merry tune to herself. It was not every day that she managed to carry on a normal conversation with the Elf who looked exactly like Haldor—she prayed that this was a sign that she was on the road to recovery, that at last the horrors of Mordor were beginning to fade from her mind.

Unfortunately, any triumphant thoughts at this minor victory were soon cast into shadow by the sight of Amrothos, who was sitting serenely at the table and scanning the crowd as if searching for someone. She froze for a split second, debating the best course of action, but the instant she decided to evacuate the vicinity the prince happened to glance over and see her.

_No!_ she thought wildly as he beckoned her to him, his cocky grin firmly in place. For a moment, she wondered if she should just ignore him and try to find Cobryn or Éomer or Legolas or _anyone_ to place between her and the horrible man, yet too much time went by as she did so and he knew she had seen him. Thus, she had no choice but to grit her teeth and make her way to him, taking as long as she possibly could without being obnoxious.

"I have missed your company," Amrothos announced as she sat down and inched her chair as far from him as she dared.

_I cannot say the same for myself,_ Gúthwyn thought darkly, but did not particularly care for voicing her discontent. Looking anywhere but at the prince, she glanced around and noticed that the servants had placed dessert on the table. Most of it was fruit, which she had recently discovered made her vomit upon consuming. Sighing, she reflected that she was well on her way to having the diet of a bird, given how little she could keep down. It was not as if she had _tried_ to throw up the fruit; it had just churned inside her stomach until she had no choice but to run for the chamber pot.

"Is there a reason I am being given the silent treatment?"

"I find your presence rather insufferable, but other than that, no," Gúthwyn snapped, not realizing how rude she was being until the words had slipped through her mouth.

Amrothos raised an eyebrow at her pertness, though a wicked grin spread across his face that she did not like at all. "If you feel that way, there is no need for me to provide you with an escort out of Éomer's sight tomorrow," he smirked. "I am sure there are hundreds of other men who would be willing to perform this service for you."

Gúthwyn's mouth dropped open. "You are the one who wanted me to be in the tournament in the first place!" she hissed. "If Éomer desires me to remain at his side throughout it all, that is as much to your disadvantage as it is to mine!"

Amrothos shrugged. "There are other women for Elphir to bed," he said carelessly, causing a mortified blush to spread to Gúthwyn's cheeks. "Why should I give you special treatment? You have done nothing for me."

"You singled me out for a reason," Gúthwyn retorted. "You need a match that will make your father happy so that he does not turn his attentions on you!"

"You are not the only lady—if indeed you can even be called that—whom it would please him to wed to Elphir," Amrothos replied coldly. "Lest you forget, your attributes are minimal: your manners are nonexistent, your friend with the cane could dance better than you, and your figure hardly promises the birth of a healthy heir. How you managed to have Hammel and Haiweth is beyond me. No sane man would want you as a wife!"

As he heaped abuse after abuse upon her, most of it painfully true, Gúthwyn struggled to keep the tears from blurring her vision. "I am not Hammel and Haiweth's mother!" she at last choked out. "The woman is dead!"

Amrothos rolled his eyes. "Do you honestly think any of us are so foolish as to believe you and your brother?" he asked cruelly. "Everyone knows you disappeared from Rohan for seven years, after which you returned with a six-year-old child. Hammel's parentage is disputable, but Haiweth's certainly is not."

"You have no idea what you are talking about," Gúthwyn said coldly, every muscle in her body clenched in hatred. "Stop speaking of my life as if you know anything about it. How dare you accuse me of having any children out of wedlock, when you squander all of your money on whores?" She trembled as she uttered the word, but fury at Amrothos gave her the strength to go on. "You and the rest of your subjects disgust me. All you are is a waste of our money and a drain on our resources, so that your women can turn their noses up at my people and spread rumors about their hosts! Next time someone takes on the monstrous, loathsome task of allowing your court to stay at their residence, you should display your gratitude by at least pretending to be decent guests!"

She stopped short and took a deep breath, practically shaking with anger. Amrothos was surveying her with a faintly amused expression on his face, making her even more irritated.

"You _are_ rather feisty," he murmured, as though she were merely an interesting sight he had happened to notice during his travels. "Tell me, were you like this as a child?"

Her cheeks flaming, wishing more than ever that she had never met this odious prince, Gúthwyn pushed her chair back and leaped to her feet. Reasoning with Amrothos was impossible! Refusing to dignify him with a farewell, she turned away and began walking in the first direction her eyes lit upon.

However, she had only gone a few steps before a hand closed about her wrist, its grip strong enough to stop her in her tracks, try though she might to escape it. As she attempted to pull her arm out of Amrothos's reach, he gave a sharp twist that made her gasp in pain and instinctively lean towards him.

"Do not worry," he said, smiling at her fright and applying just enough pressure so that she could almost feel the bones beginning to crack. "I shall overlook my hurt and help you at the tournament tomorrow… yet the reward I claim will be greater."

Too shocked and terrified to do anything, Gúthwyn nodded dumbly until she was released, at which point she recoiled and all but fled from the prince. Her wrist was throbbing; it was her mind, however, which was in greater agony as she pushed her way through suddenly enormous crowds of people. She was beginning to suffocate. There were too many gowns, too many men… they were all closing in on her, making her choke, making her struggle for air…

When she bumped into someone, she automatically jumped, only to have them place a hand on her shoulder.

"No!" she cried, thinking of Amrothos.

"Sister?"

"Gúthy!"

Éomund's daughter nearly fainted in relief as she recognized her brother and nephew. Much to his bewilderment, Éomer found himself having to quickly shift Elfwine over to accommodate her, as she had wrapped her arms around him and given him a fierce hug.

"Gúthwyn?" he asked uncertainly, patting her awkwardly on the back. Elfwine yanked at her hair, laughing to himself.

"Where have you been?" was her response, muffled against the safety of his tunic.

"Dancing with Lothíriel," he answered. "Elfwine, stop!"

The baby ignored him and continued tugging at his aunt's hair, but Gúthwyn barely noticed. She did not speak to Éomer until she was certain she had blinked all of the tears away; then she lifted her head and spoke, "I have not seen you all night."

His dark, concerned eyes met hers. "You look upset," he observed. "Are you feeling well?"

Gúthwyn nodded, trying to banish thoughts of Amrothos. "I am fine," she said, not wanting to recall how the prince's hands had seared her skin.

"Gúthy mine," Elfwine demanded then, his eyes bright as he grabbed wildly at her.

"Do you mind?" Éomer asked, still not appearing to believe her feeble excuse.

Wordlessly, Gúthwyn shook her head. Some of the soreness in her heart faded when the baby in her arms giggled, but her mind remained troubled even as she smiled and kissed his soft forehead.

"Let us sit down," Éomer suggested, eyeing her closely. "There is something I wish to discuss with you."

Confused, Gúthwyn followed him to the end of the table, thankfully several seats away from where Amrothos had once been. The prince was no longer there; even so, his memory lingered, casting a shadow over her despite Éomer's presence.

"Gúthwyn…" her brother now began, placing a gentle hand upon her own. "Why are you so unhappy in Amrothos's company?"

Involuntarily, Gúthwyn glanced down at her wrist, which bore no signs of its recent abuse. "I am not unhappy," she lied, holding Elfwine tighter. The baby scowled at this, and wriggled until he had achieved his former space. "Why would you—"

"You are lying," Éomer said shrewdly. "I saw you dancing with him. Sister, you had never been so happy to see Legolas than when he intervened and asked you for a turn. We have had this discussion already; I know you dislike Amrothos. What has he done?"

If she told Éomer even the smallest of her concerns, he would never let Amrothos take her out of his sight. His suspicion was bad enough—if it gave way to alarm, all of her meticulous plans for the tournament would crumble to dust. "He has done nothing," she insisted. "It is needless to be so worried about me. Please, I am fine."

Éomer sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Why will you not tell me what is troubling you?"

"I am _fine,_" Gúthwyn insisted vehemently, this time more irritated than flustered. "I am not a child, and I would appreciate it if you would stop fussing over me as if I were!"

"You have not been eating normally," Éomer pointed out sternly.

Something snapped inside Éomund's daughter. "Honestly!" she cried, nearly leaping to her feet before she remembered that she was still holding Elfwine. "Is that all you ever think about? Whenever you happen to see me not consuming food or drink, you accuse me of starving myself!"

Elfwine, startled at her tone, burst into noisy tears. Gúthwyn glared at her brother and set about calming the child, whispering soothing words in Rohirric until the sobs had subsided into shaky breaths.

"My concern is hardly unjustifiable," Éomer argued once his son was quiet once more. "Not too long ago, you were all but a skeleton!"

Gúthwyn was sorely tempted to tell him that it was because she did not desire Elphir as her husband, and that the very thought had made her lose her appetite for months, but she could only imagine Éomer's expression if she did so.

"Sister," he said softly, when she showed no signs of responding. "I want to help you. I want you to be able to live without the shadows I see so often in your eyes. Yet I cannot do anything if you will not tell me what is wrong!"

Gúthwyn thought of Lothíriel, how the other woman had threatened to turn Elfwine against her if she continued to embarrass her family. She thought of Amrothos, whose hand always lingered on her waist whenever they danced, who delighted in intimidating her. She thought of how she was about to disobey her brother in less than a day's time, competing in a tournament against his wishes and risking his fury. Above all, she thought of Elphir, the gallant prince who had once sought her hand in marriage and now would have nothing do to with her.

"Éomer, I am fine," she repeated, staring down at Elfwine. "I am perfectly well."

The king of Rohan did not notice how her hands trembled when she spoke.


	95. A Meeting With Elphir

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: anolinde  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ninety-Five:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Ninety-Five**

After being forced to endure yet another round of dancing with Amrothos—who seemed to have quite forgotten their argument—Gúthwyn had had enough. She announced her retirement rather snappishly and retreated to the table, where she was greeted eagerly by Elfwine, who had been left to the care of his grandfather. Unlike the rest of his people, Imrahil treated her cordially, and had not appeared to mind her company in the least.

Together, the two of them had entertained the young prince, laughing almost as much as he did. He quickly developed a game that involved him lunging back and forth between their laps, necessitating the movement of their chairs to achieve closer proximity, and she had managed to present herself as a well-mannered lady (or so she hoped) during the ensuing conversation.

However, their and Elfwine's happiness had ended with the return of Éomer and Lothíriel, who had danced together for several waltzes and by then were ready to retire. Clearly irritated that her son was enjoying himself more in the arms of his aunt than he did in his mother's, she had wasted no time with pleasantries before requesting him back. No sooner had this exchange occurred than Elfwine threw a temper tantrum, screaming and wailing miserably. Gúthwyn felt it best to remove herself from the table at that point, so that her nephew might grow accustomed to her absence. Lothíriel's eyes had burned furious holes in her spine the entire time she was walking away.

Now she found herself wandering aimlessly around the great hall, wondering to whom she could turn for a bit of companionship. Cobryn was engaged in what looked to be a fierce debate with the other advisors, and as she had no wish to fall asleep just yet, she passed the table by and instead searched for some of the Riders. Unfortunately, they were outnumbered by the delegation from Dol Amroth. Everywhere she turned, there was Lord This and Lady That, all of them frowning at her for daring to taint their vicinities with her presence.

At last she gave up. Most of her friends, she thought, had already gone back to their homes, tired of Dol Amroth insipidity. There being no one with whom she could socialize in what must have been all of Meduseld, she had two options left: retire to her chambers, or go for a walk outside.

The latter won out. She was not fatigued by any means; she knew that the earlier she went to bed, the longer she would lie awake, fearing the shadows on her walls and growing increasingly anxious. At the very least, a stroll underneath the stars would help clear her mind and calm the nerves left over from her encounters with Amrothos. Her course determined, she began making her way through the crowd, excusing herself ever so often.

When at length she reached the end of the throne room, she pushed open one of the doors and stepped outside. Taking a deep breath of the noticeably cleaner and cooler air, she wandered out onto the landing, relieved to have time to herself. With the walls of her home forming a barrier between her and the people she had come to abhor, she felt a lot better than she had all week.

Then her eyes narrowed, focusing on two figures going towards the gates: that of a child and an adult, both of them holding hands. Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat as she recognized Elphir's cloak and Alphros's bouncing gait.

_Now is my chance,_ she thought, elated. Slipping down the stairs, she moved as swiftly and as lightly as possible towards the two princes, aware that if Elphir detected her too soon he would simply adjust his stride so that he reached the city's entrance before she did. As she drew closer, she began to hear their voices.

"Why do we always have to leave early?" Alphros complained, tugging impatiently at his father's hand. "I never get to play with anyone!"

"There is plenty of time to see your friends during the day," Elphir replied, his tone dull.

"But you never let me play with them!" Alphros continued to whine. "You and Aunt Lothíriel always say they're not—"

"Elphir?" Gúthwyn asked then, having come sufficiently close enough to make it impossible for the princes to outrun her.

With a start, the man who had once wanted to marry her turned around, and then stiffened in anger upon realizing who it was. Alphros's eyes grew as round as dinner plates, and he glanced apprehensively between her and his father.

"What are you doing here?" Elphir demanded, looking sternly at her. She could see the disgust reflected in his gaze.

"I would like to speak with you," Gúthwyn explained, hardly able to believe that she had just successfully cornered him. She had been trying for weeks, each attempt a miserable failure. There were so many questions rushing through her mind that she did not know where to begin. Why had he ended their correspondence? Where had their courtship gone wrong? What had she ever done to deserve his hatred?

Elphir's expression was sour as he replied, "It is past Alphros's bedtime. We must be going. Excuse us."

With that, he turned around, practically dragging an already protesting Alphros behind him, yet Gúthwyn would not let him walk away from her again. He may have abandoned their marriage, he may have abandoned their friendship, but the least he would give her in return was a decent reason.

"Elphir, wait!" she cried, leaping in front of him so that his path was blocked. "Please, it is important."

"I told you, I do not have time," Elphir growled. "Speak to my brother if it is so pressing. I am certain he would be most obliging." There was a hard bitterness in his words, one that made her hesitate for a second. Was there anything she could do to bring back the man she had once so highly esteemed? Or was it simply a futile effort, fated to end with disappointment on her side?

"Papa, stop!" Alphros shrieked, planting his feet in the ground as Elphir tried to move him along. "I don't want to go!"

"Elphir, please!" Gúthwyn begged as the prince paused, torn between the desire to get away from Éomund's daughter and the instinct to keep his son happy. "What have I done to you? Why will you not speak with me?"

"What have you done to me?" Elphir suddenly exploded, his face more livid than she could ever recall seeing it. "Do you think it funny, to act as though you are so innocent?"

"What are you talking about?" Gúthwyn cried, desperate to cut to the core of the mystery that had been troubling her ever since the letters from Dol Amroth had stopped.

"Do you really take me for a fool?" Elphir demanded, absolutely furious. He had let go of Alphros's hand and was now clenching his fists by his side, clearly restraining from putting them to use. "Do you believe me to be such a dotard that I know nothing about your disgraceful antics, the least of which have occurred this past month?"

Gúthwyn felt as though one of Samwise Gamgee's frying pans had been slammed into her stomach. _He is just like the rest of his subjects,_ she realized in horror. _He thinks that I am a whore!_

"Elphir, I never—"

"I do not have time for this," the prince cut her off. "Alphros, _now_," he added, not removing his smoldering stare from Gúthwyn's eyes.

"Please, we used to—"

"Any relationship we once had ended the moment I saw the person you truly are," Elphir snarled. "The woman I would have married is nothing but lies, all concocted by a wretched being whose heart is merely an empty shell! To this day, I do not understand why I let myself fall in love with you!"

He sounded both hurt and enraged, an overwhelming combination that left Gúthwyn speechless. For a long time, the two of them stood there, chests rising and falling unsteadily, each struggling to find the right thing to say. Elphir in particular looked as if he was desperate for the silence to be broken; but Gúthwyn could not, did not respond.

"You sicken me," Elphir finally spat. Without another word, he turned around and put his hand on Alphros's shoulder, using it to steer the shocked boy down the street. Gúthwyn was left standing there, knowing that each step they took would make it harder for her to reconcile with the eldest prince, but completely incapable of moving. She could hardly comprehend that this encounter, the one she had dreamed of ever since being released from the burden of wedding a man she did not love, could have gone so horrendously wrong.

By the time she came to her senses, Elphir and Alphros were but small specks at the end of the road, and she did not have the heart to follow them.

* * *

"Papa, why don't you like Gúthwyn anymore?" Alphros asked as Elphir tucked him into bed, looking inquisitively upwards. "Why can't I play with her?" 

Elphir sighed. Contrary to the anger he had just vented upon the king's sister, his spirits were now deflated, miserable at the unraveling mess that was his life. At least once a day his son questioned his decision to keep Gúthwyn out of Dol Amroth—and not until he was old enough would he get a straight answer.

"We grew apart," he replied at that moment, absent-mindedly stroking Alphros's hair. "And you cannot play with her because it is not appropriate."

"Why?" Alphros wanted to know.

_Because she is a whore._

"Because I said so."

Alphros scowled. "That's not fair! Grandfather says that everyone gets a second chance! Why doesn't she?"

"I gave her many chances," Elphir responded stonily. He had written until his fingers cramped and stained with ink; he had waited until he could wait no longer. And all the while, she had been prostituting herself for the soldiers of Rohan—at least, that was what everyone at court said.

_You know it is true,_ he told himself sternly. _You have seen her with your own eyes! Is that not evidence enough?_

When Alphros did not speak, Elphir glanced down to see a ferocious glare adorning his features, one that was formidable enough to rival Imrahil's. "Gúthwyn was always nice," he asserted staunchly. "She never did anything wrong."

"It is time for you to go to sleep," Elphir decided, unable to bear Alphros's constant questioning any further. "Do not let me catch you out of bed."

Alphros sighed. "Fine, Papa."

Elphir felt his features softening. "I love you," he murmured, bending over to kiss his son on the brow. "Never forget that."

"I won't," Alphros promised.

A moment later, Elphir slipped in between the sheets next to Alphros, having changed into his nightclothes and ready to spend another restless night wondering how he could have lost everything, when just a year ago he had thought himself on the brink of gaining it all. He would have had a wife, a mother for Alphros… a woman he truly respected, rather than one of the usual dim-witted ladies twittering around the court. A woman who was his equal—if not his better—in the art of wielding a blade, a woman who was diverting and kind-hearted and beautiful.

_Why did you have to be promiscuous?_ he asked her silently. _Why could you not wait until your wedding night?_

Even now, he did not want to believe it. Though he had seen her holding hands with Cobryn, had heard accounts from her own people about how she spent all her waking time in close contact with the warriors, part of him still clung onto the hope that maybe it was all a mistake, that somehow rumors of her conduct were simply that: malicious tales crafted by her ill-wishers.

_You _know_ she is a whore,_ he reminded himself. _Why else would Amrothos want to be with her so often?_

His insides boiled at the thought of his youngest brother trailing Gúthwyn everywhere she went, openly flirting with her and sometimes going so far as to touch her. While Elphir had long ago renounced any attraction on his part towards the king's sister—and had even said scathingly to Amrothos, "She seems to be more suited for you"—he had not seriously entertained the idea that the other man would actually pursue Gúthwyn.

As much as he wanted to deny it, he was jealous. He was jealous of every glance she exchanged with his brother, every single soldier she smiled at, and every commoner she conversed so easily with. Regardless of how many times he told himself that they had all likely bedded her at one point or another—with the obvious exception of Amrothos, whom he did not doubt was hoping to make it onto the list—he could not suppress the powerful surges of envy he felt whenever she was around them. It was a foolish part of him, one that still clung onto the memories of that wonderful visit so long ago. Yet she had given up on their relationship, and instead sought the company of his youngest brother.

Nowadays, it was all he could do to keep from striking the prince. But it was not entirely Amrothos's fault: the man had never been able to resist a whore, as shown by the large sums of money he spent on them each month. Nay, Gúthwyn was the one to blame. Rather than refuse his advances, she was spending far too much time with him to be considered proper. She danced with him constantly, whispered to him at the table, and had even gone riding with him a few days ago.

Elphir's hands curled into fists without him noticing. He had come to Rohan willing to give her another chance. If she had been truly miserable, if she had not given herself so eagerly to the attentions of his brother, he knew he would have attempted to reconcile with her. Surely there was a logical reason for why she had not written to him for months? An explanation for why he had sent letter after letter, each more desperate than the last, without receiving a single reply?

Yet when Gúthwyn had first approached him on the stairs after his arrival, he had not been able to speak for hurt and anger. He had barely managed a strangled acknowledgment of her name; the ensuing lunch had been worse. Being forced to sit at the same table as her, watching while she conversed with anyone but him, had been nothing short of torture. He was undeniably bitter at their situation, and to see Gúthwyn after her long silence had brought the worst out in him.

Even after that rough start, he likely would have sought her out—after several days of convincing himself that maybe she was not as immoral as he had been informed—but then she had turned to Amrothos. There was also the night she had worn that absolutely disgusting dress. Just thinking of it made him knit his brow. He had never known her to don such inappropriate clothing. Why now?

The whole situation was exceedingly puzzling. Gúthwyn had never shown the slightest signs of being anything less than, well, a prude. She had always flushed upon hearing the tamest jokes, and had appeared downright nauseous when Éomer and Lothíriel embarked upon the consummation of their marriage. Now, however, she was wearing gowns with plunging necklines, consorting with Amrothos, and embarrassing herself left and right with minor scandals.

_What happened to the woman I loved?_ he asked silently.

_It is no use regretting what might have been,_ another part of him answered sternly. _You should be glad that you came to your senses before it was too late! Gúthwyn is a whore, and you know it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself!_

Alphros's words echoed hauntingly in his mind. _Gúthwyn was always nice… Grandfather says that everyone gets a second chance!_

_You gave her dozens of chances!_ the other half retorted. _Remember how many letters you sent her? And how many did she respond to? None! She cares nothing for you. The court is right: her behavior is deplorable for someone of her status._

_She used to be perfect,_ a weakening part of him feebly argued. _What of all the times you sparred together, and how often she used to smile when you were in each other's company? How could she become such a repulsive being in so few months?_

_You fool, do you not understand? She was carrying on with all the men in Rohan long before you were interested in her—with a crown in sight, she was simply more discreet about it! You caught her holding hands with Cobryn, and you still doubt the rumors? You saw her wearing the dress, and you still believe in her purity? She is no better than a tavern wench!_

Elphir groaned in frustration. The sooner he pushed Gúthwyn from his mind, the happier he would be. She was a whore, yes; a good-for-nothing slut who was clever at concealing her habits, but not clever enough. He had done the right thing in ending their marriage negotiations, and no matter how much she pretended to be innocent he would not relent.

His fingers twitched, these days a constant reflex telling him that he needed to take his frustrations out with a blade. He was planning on entering the tournament tomorrow; then, all the anger at his former betrothed would be unleashed upon the unfortunate contestants. A secret part of him darkly anticipated coming face-to-face with Amrothos, and being able to beat him severely in what was nothing short of retaliation for having the nerve to flirt with Gúthwyn. He would not care overmuch if he drew blood.

_Soon,_ he promised himself. _Then Amrothos will know what a fool he has been._

And if by the grace of Eru he made it to the final round, and fought against the champion of Rohan, he would do everything in his power to smite the man—he who had likely spent himself atop _Lady_ Gúthwyn. The knowledge made Elphir's fists clench and his breathing become labored. He would beat his opponent into the ground for all the humiliation he had suffered over the past few months; and while he would not stoop to a dishonorable level by cheating, he was determined that there should be no warrior who could defeat him while the flames of his rage still burned inside his tortured heart.

* * *

"By the Valar," Gúthwyn breathed as she gazed out over the plains the following morning, Cobryn and the children at her side. No longer did the rolling fields expand for miles without interruption: now, enormous stands had been erected upon the grass, forming a ring around the competition area and slowly filling up with the hundreds of spectators who would be watching the tournament. They had been constructed overnight, dozens of Rohirrim laboring until the break of dawn so that the event would start off smoothly. 

Haiweth, up until this point unable to think of anything besides her new dress, gaped at the scene in astonishment and dazedly asked, "Where will we be sitting?"

"With my brother and Lothíriel," Gúthwyn answered, still considerably impressed by the sight before her. She could not see into the arena, but she knew that servants were setting up the archery targets. Participants would be tested on their prowess with a bow first—a rather useless trial, as everyone knew Legolas and his companions would emerge the victors, but one that promised astonishing feats of skill nonetheless.

After prizes had been awarded to the archers, the men would mount their horses and perform various actions from the saddle, including lance-throwing and jousting. Naturally, the Rohirrim were favored to triumph here, as rider and beast were so closely attuned to the other's emotions that at times they seemed to move as one.

With the outcomes of the archery and equestrianism games all but set in stone, that left one chance for Dol Amroth to claim glory: sword-fighting. The Elves had declined to enter this round, which meant that it would be the men (and woman) of Rohan pitted against Imrahil's warriors. Gúthwyn was dearly looking forward to the time when she could repay a noble such as Lord Tulkadan for all the misery he and his friends had caused her—assuming she made it to the last fight.

"Come," Cobryn said then. "You should take your seat as soon as possible." Blinking, she realized that she had just stopped in the midst of a flowing crowd, placing her at an alarming risk for injury. She was not the only one in Rohan who had never seen a real tournament before; several of the younger children were positively aquiver with excitement, and were racing through the throngs with wooden swords firmly in hand. If she was not careful, she would find herself being jostled by the people surrounding her.

"Will you be with us?" she asked Cobryn once they began moving again.

Her friend shook his head. "I shall be near Aldor. I doubt your brother's wife desires to suffer my presence today."

Gúthwyn rolled his eyes, yet despite her annoyance with Lothíriel's infuriating seating arrangements she could not help but be glad that the woman had chosen to place her friend far away from her today. It would be difficult enough sneaking into the tournament under Éomer's nose, let alone trying to evade the shrewd advisor's piercing gaze.

"Why not?" Haiweth asked, completely oblivious to the tensions between Rohan's queen and the king's sister.

"Lothíriel wishes to be with her friends from Dol Amroth," Gúthwyn said carefully, having decided long ago not to involve the children in her quarrels with the other woman, "not those whom she can see on a regular basis."

Haiweth nodded absent-mindedly, soon delegating her attention to more interesting topics. "What will the winners get?"

"I believe Lothíriel is giving them trophies of some sort," Gúthwyn replied, not entirely sure herself. Whether Éomer had been reluctant to have her thinking of the tournament or not, her involvement in the preparations had been minimal.

"All of the older girls are talking about champions," Haiweth continued, apparently not noticing Gúthwyn's vague response to her previous question. "What are those?"

"A champion, little one, is a man who fights bearing a token from his lady," Gúthwyn answered, her smile somewhat strained. She had not spoken to Tun for days; she did not know if he intended on representing her. Was it even proper, when he had a loving wife at his side?

"Why?" Haiweth wanted to know, wrinkling her nose in confusion.

Gúthwyn shrugged. "It is an old custom."

"Who is your champion?" Haiweth questioned, bouncing up and down in excitement as they drew nearer to the stands.

"I am not sure," Gúthwyn said truthfully, a pang in her heart as she thought of Tun. "It used to be Tun, long ago."

"Tun?" Haiweth echoed, her eyes wide. "Will he be yours today?"

Gúthwyn shrugged uneasily. "He has a wife now—he may want to fight for her, instead."

"Then, if you were married, you could have a champion, too?"

"Marriage is not a requirement," Gúthwyn was quick to inform her.

There was a long pause. Haiweth appeared to be mulling something over; at last, with a furtive glance in Hammel and Cobryn's directions, she leaned towards Gúthwyn and whispered curiously, "Would Borogor be yours?"

Éomund's daughter stiffened. Though the skies were bright and filled with sunshine, a dark, heavy weight seemed to settle itself on her heart, bringing with it the familiar heartache that had haunted her ever since the seventh of June, more than five years ago. _Why today?_ she silently questioned Haiweth. _Why did you have to mention him now?_ She could not think of him in this crowd—the lump in her throat was almost impossible to bear in silence, let alone without expression.

"Gúthwyn?" Haiweth asked tentatively.

"I-I do not know, little one," Gúthwyn managed shakily, relieved when the entrance to the stands came in sight. "Let us get our seats, quickly."

Haiweth looked as if she was sorry to have spoken, but the mood of the conversation dissipated the instant they filed into the arena. A loud roar greeted them, the combined noises of nearly a thousand men, women, and children eagerly speculating on the outcomes of the tournament. A solid wall of brown clothing indicated where the Rohirrim were sitting, but the delegation of Dol Amroth was, as usual, bedecked in bright colors that made Gúthwyn's eyes hurt.

A hundred or so warriors and their squires were milling about in the field, performing last-minute examinations on their weapons and armor. They were separated by realm—Gúthwyn's smiling gaze, bestowed so easily upon the Eorlingas, faltered as it slid over the small group of Elves, and altogether disappeared when it landed on the men from Dol Amroth. Lord Tulkadan was among them, ordering a miserable-looking page to assist him with his greaves.

_Dolt,_ Gúthwyn thought angrily, turning to climb the stairs up to where Éomer and Lothíriel were seated.

"Well," Cobryn muttered then, and she jumped, having forgotten his presence, "I see Lady Míriel and her friends are observing the traditions of combat."

Gúthwyn followed his gaze to see the women of Dol Amroth occupying the very front row of the stands, separated from the contestants only by a barrier that had been installed to prevent any interaction between the fighters and the spectators. Éomer had told her a number of stories concerning citizens who had had the misfortune to be sitting directly in the path of rogue lances or wildly astray arrows—today, all precautions were being taken to ensure that such accidents did not occur. Privately, she would not have minded one or two nobles being disposed of by a chance spear, but she had resolutely silenced these feelings.

As Éomund's daughter narrowed her eyes at the loathsome women who had gossiped endlessly about her, she noticed that they were all carrying the same blue ribbon. Most of them had theirs tied around a delicate wrist, though a few had used it to pull back their hair. She mentioned this in an undertone to Cobryn, inquiring as to whether he was aware of what they were for.

"Their champions," Cobryn replied swiftly, knowledgeable as usual about what Gúthwyn was beginning to refer to as the enemy. "From what I have heard, the custom is to give the ribbons to the men that desire to represent them, which may change according to what contest is taking place. For example, Éomer might enter the equestrian challenges, and then carry Lothíriel's favor, but if he decided to participate in the sword-fighting he might then seek out yours."

"The women cannot choose their own champions?" Gúthwyn asked, startled.

Cobryn shook his head. "It is also very rare that they decline to give their token to a man who approaches them. Such an act would be considered a scandal, and be the source of much gossip pertaining to the reason behind the refusal."

As he said this, Gúthwyn was struck by a sudden, horrible thought. "What if Amrothos asks for my favor?" she hissed, panic swelling within her at the very notion.

Cobryn immediately struck the concept down. "Even he would not be foolish enough to try that. If Elphir did not murder him for his lack of propriety, Imrahil would." Then he fixed her with a keen look. "Have you spoken to Tun recently?"

"No, I have not." Gúthwyn bit her lip, simultaneously putting a hand on Haiweth's shoulder and steering her out of the way of some nobles making their way down the isle. One of them bumped shoulders with Hammel, and received a filthy glare from the boy.

Sighing, Gúthwyn said warningly, "Behave."

Hammel muttered something under his breath, a string of words that sounded chillingly like a curse. Before she had time to react, Cobryn clamped his hand down on the boy's shoulder. "Behave," he repeated, only relinquishing his hold when Hammel had nodded reluctantly. Gúthwyn suspected that the grip had been stronger than it appeared to be, for Hammel rubbed angrily at it for several minutes afterwards.

Cobryn exchanged a dark glance with her, but when Hammel stormed up ahead of them he resumed their previous discussion. "Does he intend to be your champion?"

"I am not sure," Gúthwyn admitted. "Do you think… do you think he would even wish to?"

Shrugging, Cobryn replied, "He might."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said dryly.

"There you are, sister, I was beginning to wonder whether you had decided not to come!"

"Nonsense," Gúthwyn replied, looking up into the face of her brother. "You know I would not miss today for all of Middle-earth."

Éomer smiled at that, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "Let me help you find our seats—you nearly walked right past them."

Gúthwyn glanced around. "Where—" she began, and then paused, noticing at last the box-like structure that indicated where the royal family would be sitting. Elfwine, Imrahil, Lothíriel, and the queen's brothers were already inside, alternately surveying the crowd and talking (or in Elfwine's case, babbling) to each other. The one exception was Elphir, who was stonily quiet and staring off into the distance. Alphros was beside him, practically dancing with excitement.

"Who is that?" he constantly pestered his father, pointing at various soldiers that Elphir could not possibly be expected to know. "When are you going to fight?"

"At the very end," Elphir ground out, obviously having answered this question a dozen times already.

Gúthwyn paused, knitting her brow. _At the very end…_ he must have been referring to the sword-fighting. She had expected him to compete, but a small part of her had been hoping that there would be no risk of meeting him on the field.

"Sister?"

She glanced up to see Éomer watching her concernedly. "Are you all right?" he inquired, looking between her and Elphir.

Quickly she nodded, lest his worry turn into suspicion. "I am fine," she replied. "Let us sit down."

The two of them bade farewell to Cobryn and entered the box, followed by Haiweth. Gúthwyn's eyes instinctively flicked around in search of Hammel, only relenting when she saw him by himself in a corner. All the while, Éomer surveyed her closely, clearly not convinced by her earlier words. She repressed the urge to sigh at this paternalistic caution as they were greeted by the others.

"King Éomer," Alphros said eagerly, bouncing up and down to see his uncle better, "when will the tournament start?"

Éomer chuckled at the boy's impatience. "Soon, Alphros," he promised. "We cannot begin until everyone is here."

Alphros all but wilted in disappointment, yet just then one of the Rohirrim cantered by on a horse, causing him to forget the exchange that had just occurred. The young prince's gasp of delight echoing in her ears, Gúthwyn moved to the front of the box, wanting to look out over the arena. What she saw made her eyes widen in astonishment. When she sat down to watch the tournament, she would have a perfect view—she could see everything that was happening beneath her, as well as the layout of the competition area.

Facing each other across the width of the field, small tents had been erected for the warriors of the different realms. There was also a larger one near the entrance containing weapons, in case anyone's should break in combat or otherwise prove itself faulty. Targets had been constructed on the far ends of the greensward, the more difficult ones the furthest away from where the archers would be standing. Gúthwyn watched the servants setting up the last of them, marveling that anyone could even dream of hitting what could hardly be seen.

"Gúthwyn!"

A group of Riders passing under the box called out their greetings, all of which she happily returned. Elfhelm and Ceorl were among their number, each of them grinning broadly up at her. Had they been on horseback, they would have been taller: the box was not terribly high up.

"It is a pity you cannot join us," Elfhelm said, having to shout in order to make himself heard over the crowd. "I daresay you would show the nobles of Dol Amroth a thing or two!"

Gúthwyn blanched, and swiftly turned to ensure that Éomer was not listening. Luckily, he did not appear to be: he was engaged in a conversation with Lothíriel, both of them talking around Elfwine's shrieks of excitement.

She stuck her head back over the box. "If Éomer hears you saying that, he will have me locked in my chambers for the rest of the day!"

The guards laughed at this. "He probably does not want to suffer the indignity of losing to you!" one of them suggested, prompting another round of mirth.

In spite of herself, she could not help but smile. "I am not sure if he is going to participate," she said. "It would be rather obvious that the king was one of the fighters."

_And humiliating if he lost,_ she added in her mind.

"What lucky man are you going to give your favor to today?" Ceorl asked her then, shading his eyes with his hand so that they would be protected from the bright sun.

Gúthwyn flushed. "I am not sure, Cobryn told me that it is not my choice. According to him, a warrior is supposed to ask a woman for her token."

Elfhelm chuckled. "I daresay Tun will outrun us all," he smirked.

"Oh, stop it!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, mortified for her champion's sake. "He has a wife now!"

Ceorl winked at her, making her cheeks turn even redder. "Somehow, I doubt you will remain without a champion for long."

"You are all bent on embarrassing me today," she muttered.

Just then, a loud horn blew, causing her to jump in fright and almost fall over the barrier. She managed to steady herself by gripping onto the railing, but it was a near miss, and her hands were still shaking when she realized that the start of the tournament was being signaled.

"Good luck!" she bade the Riders before she returned to her seat. "And"—she leaned down and lowered her voice—"do your best to shame Dol Amroth."

Elfhelm gave her a wicked grin. "Today will be quite humiliating for them, I can assure you of that."

"Sister, come!" she heard Éomer calling. "We are about to begin!"

Gúthwyn quickly said farewell to her friends and joined her brother, taking the chair directly in between Lothíriel and Amrothos. This was an unfortunate arrangement, but as Imrahil was given the seat to Éomer's left, she had nowhere more appropriate to sit. The only advantage of her position was her proximity to Elfwine—perched atop Lothíriel's lap—and judging by the gleeful looks her nephew was giving her, it would not be long until he was in her arms.

"I have hidden the armor, your pack, and your sword behind the stands."

Startling at Amrothos's mutter, which was too close to her ear for her liking, Gúthwyn took a deep breath and nodded. Although she had been reluctant to let him handle Framwine—and had used her own bag, so that he could not touch Borogor's—she had given him her things so that he could put them somewhere out of sight for her to retrieve later on. Evidently, he had also succeeded in acquiring armor for her. She was not one for wearing the plates, but she would have to at least don a helmet so that her identity would be concealed.

"Thank you," she said awkwardly, keenly aware of their proximity to Lothíriel. The queen was busy admonishing her son about something, however, and was not at all paying attention to the conversation her rival was having with her brother.

"There is still the matter of my payment," he said smoothly.

Gúthwyn stiffened. "I have no money," she told him bluntly, "and I will not give you my horse or my sword. I do not see what else you could possibly want."

"I will think of something," Amrothos murmured, sounding as though he were holding back laughter. Gúthwyn did not find the situation at all funny. She was wary of what being in debt to the prince would entail, and not entirely sure that she wanted to know. She nearly groaned, imagining all the things he could do: asking to be her partner in every dance, following her around wherever she went, insisting on riding with her each day.

In a feeble attempt to keep her mind off of her impending misery, she glanced back and marked her location in regard to Hammel and Haiweth's. They had been placed in the row behind her, not too far from Elphir and Alphros. The latter was eyeing them shyly, but his father did not appear terribly happy. After last night, she doubted that he would be partial to anyone that was connected to her.

A sudden drop in the noise level drew her attention, and she turned back around to see that her brother had risen to his feet. The spectators had fallen silent, anxiously awaiting his words.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Éomer called, his voice reaching to the far corners of the arena: "good people! I bid you welcome to today's games!"

The resounding roar of the crowd caused Gúthwyn's heart to beat wildly in her chest. Within hours, she would be disguising herself and participating in this very tournament, hopefully to win the Eorlingas glory.

_And hopefully to discover that the other men have, in fact, been treating me no differently than their other companions at the training grounds._

The crowd's energy racing through her veins, Éomund's daughter settled back to watch the tournament, one of only three who knew just how eventful the day's festivities would be.


	96. Lebryn's Revenge

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: anolinde**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ninety-Six:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Ninety-Six**

After Éomer had welcomed everyone to the tournament, a herald took over and ordered the first group of archers out onto the field. There were to be a series of smaller contests before the final one, each of which would have a limited number of participants. Gúthwyn cheered along with everyone else as a contingent of men from both Rohan and Dol Amroth made their way into the center of the arena, not a few of them pausing to claim favors from their female relatives or their beloveds.

Most of them were young, knowing fully well that they could not hope to win against the more seasoned veterans of combat. It was here that they could attain glory; only the foolhardy would dare to test themselves against warriors such as Elfhelm or Gamling. Gúthwyn had met the majority of them on the training grounds—Erkenbrand referred to the times she sparred with them as 'well-deserved lessons in humiliation.'

"Want," Elfwine demanded then. As Gúthwyn came out of her reverie, he grabbed at the green ribbon Lothíriel had tied around her wrist.

"No, that is for your father and my brothers," Lothíriel replied, moving her hand out of harm's way.

"Mine!"

"Where did you get that?" Gúthwyn asked, lifting her voice slightly over Elfwine's squabbling.

Lothíriel glanced at her, as usual looking as though she had just happened upon something unpleasant. "At the entrance," she answered shortly.

Gúthwyn thought for a moment. If she hurried—currently the rules of the round were being shouted to the crowd—she might be able to get there before the competition began.

"Hammel, Haiweth," she said, turning around in her seat to speak to them. They barely met her eyes, too entranced by the tournament to pay much attention. "I shall be back soon; behave yourselves!"

"I promise," Haiweth muttered, still transfixed by what was going on in the arena.

Gúthwyn smiled and rose from her seat, taking care to stoop so that she did not obstruct anyone's view. Luckily, everyone was too fixated by the men on the field to notice her departure. Everyone, that was, except for Éomer, who leaned over and asked sharply where she was going.

"I am hoping to get a ribbon," she informed her brother, knowing the reason behind his suspicion. "I think Haiweth would also like one."

Éomer's expression cleared instantly. "Do you have enough money?" he inquired.

She blinked, feeling color come to her cheeks. "They are not simply handing them out?"

He shook his head.

"Oh…" She had not brought any money with her, assuming that she would have nothing to buy.

"Here," Éomer said, and reached into his pocket. Gúthwyn heard the distinct _clink, clink_ of coins and quickly shook her head.

"No, that is fine, I do not need one. Never mind."

"Nonsense," Éomer replied, chuckling. "I would be shocked if less than a dozen men ask for your favor today! If you do not buy one now, you shall regret it later on. Did you say that Haiweth also wants one?"

Blushing furiously, surreptitiously glancing at Elphir out of the corner of her eye to see if he had heard, Gúthwyn nodded. "Thank you," she murmured once her brother had handed her more money. "I will repay you when we get back—"

"You most certainly will not," Éomer cut her off, grinning at her discomfort. "Do not trouble yourself, baby sister."

Gúthwyn would not have been surprised if her face was a shade of red similar to her brother's armor. She had always hated him paying for her; she must have cost him a fortune in healer's fees alone, and that was before one took the children into account. He certainly was not required to be so generous, and it embarrassed her that he was. _If I had married Elphir, I would not be such a burden on him,_ she thought wretchedly.

This guilt weighing fresh in her mind, she thanked Éomer again and was about to leave the box when she caught sight of Elfwine. He was attempting to grab Lothíriel by the wrist and take her ribbon away. She kept adjusting so that he could not, but both mother and son were growing more irritated by the second. An idea coming to her head, Gúthwyn turned back to her brother, swallowing her unhappiness about requesting another favor.

"Might I buy Elfwine a ribbon, too?" she asked in an undertone. "He is trying to steal Lothíriel's."

Éomer laughed. "So long as he does not give it to a warrior!"

Gúthwyn promised that she would watch him carefully, and soon found herself being presented with more coins. Trying to ignore her shame at having to borrow from her brother so frequently, she tucked the money safe inside a pocket and—her hand pressed over it just in case—began making her way down the stairs.

Unfortunately, at this point the games had already started, but she still had an excellent view as she walked towards the lower levels of the arena. Here there was more of a crowd, as some of the children had abandoned their seats and were hoping to catch a better glimpse of the men by peering over the barrier.

"Lady Gúthwyn!" several of them cried as she passed. A broad grin on her face, she waved merrily at them and inquired after the families of not a few. The others were too young to do anything more than stare shyly at her. Shorter than their peers, they were crowded together on a bench that had been pushed underneath the barrier, craning their necks to see over the wall.

Gúthwyn smiled at this sight and continued on her way, heading for the entrance until at last she saw the woman who was selling them. The grin on her face faded slightly: it was the mother of Wulfríd, Hammel's tormentor. She had no qualms against his parents—his father was Éothain, a courageous Rider who had fought for Éomer during the War of the Ring—but she disapproved of how little they had disciplined Wulfríd over the years.

Nevertheless, she made sure that nothing less than absolute politeness was in her tone as she greeted Wulfríd's mother. "Good day, Wífwen," she said.

"My lady," Wífwen replied courteously, but when she inclined her head Gúthwyn caught sight of the smirk that crossed her features and knew that she, too, believed the gossip that was running wild through the streets.

Trying to ignore the sudden twisting sensation in her heart, Gúthwyn cleared her throat and said, "Three ribbons, please."

"Many champions?" Wífwen asked lightly, rummaging around in the box that she carried.

"I am buying for others," Gúthwyn answered shortly.

"Of course," Wífwen muttered, her voice so low that Éomund's daughter was not entirely sure that she had heard anything at all. Her next words were quite businesslike. "You will be wanting green?"

The other color was blue. Gúthwyn assumed that it was intended to represent Dol Amroth, so she nodded and responded, "Yes, thank you."

A moment later, she was in the possession of three green ribbons and had a considerably lighter pocket. Reminding herself that Éomer had not cared that she was spending his money on something so frivolous, she focused on returning to the stands and giving him what little change was left.

Her brother hardly seemed to notice that she had handed over anything at all; he was watching the competitors intently, his keen eyes examining the warriors. Gúthwyn knew that he was using the tournament as an excuse to survey the younger men and determine which ones he might promote to the rank of a guard. Not wishing to interrupt his concentration, she resumed her seat and presented a delighted Haiweth with her ribbon.

When that was done, she reached over and tickled Elfwine's bare feet to get his attention. He shrieked with glee, earning her a glare from Lothíriel, and then lunged at her upon realizing that she had not one, but two ribbons in her hand.

"What do you say, little one?" Gúthwyn questioned firmly, withholding the prize.

Elfwine frowned. "Peas?" he asked uncertainly, recognizing the query but not the context.

Grinning, Gúthwyn leaned over and tied a ribbon around his wrist so that he would not put it in his mouth and choke on it. Elfwine promptly forgot about the tournament and set about amusing himself with his new trinket. Glad she had made her nephew happy, Gúthwyn returned her attentions to the games and almost immediately felt her eyes widening in awe.

When placed alongside the Elves, the men of Rohan and Dol Amroth must have seemed like amateur archers, but to Éomund's daughter—who had never had success of any kind with a bow—it appeared as though the arrows were flying of their own accord towards the targets. They moved so swiftly, so accurately, that to know a human could be the driving force behind the shot was incredible.

When she examined them more closely, she realized that few of the shots were hitting the center of the target, and that in comparison to the Elves their skill was paltry, but she could not help but envy how easily archery came to them. Perhaps her lack of talent with a bow was because of Haldor. She shivered, recalling the time he had tried to fix her technique. His very touch had thrown her into a panic, making it impossible for her to think. Impossible for her to breathe.

A sudden roar from the crowd caused her to jump, at the same time mercifully casting Haldor out of her mind. When she glanced up, she saw that one of the men from Rohan had won the contest, and was walking to the box to claim his prize from Lothíriel. When she squinted, she saw that it was Hunwald, a young Rider who had just recently begun accompanying his father on scouting expeditions. He was a wonderfully-mannered man; she had sparred with him several times on the training grounds.

After handing Elfwine to Gúthwyn, Lothíriel awarded the Rider with a sufficiently impressive trophy for his efforts. Money would not be given out until the later games, though Hunwald clearly would not have minded even if she had presented him with a scrap of fabric. He was beaming so proudly that the very sun appeared to be radiating from his face. Gúthwyn joined the rest of her people in cheering him wildly, pleased that such a kind-hearted soldier had won renown for himself.

Hunwald thanked Lothíriel profusely, and upon seeing Éomund's daughter clapping for him he swept into a bow so low that most of the audience laughed merrily. The sole exception was the delegation from Dol Amroth, who were unsure what to make of such obvious deference. Gúthwyn ignored them, as well as the stony figure in the corner of the box that was her former betrothed, and instead joined the many who were applauding Hunwald's glory.

Lothíriel resumed her seat as Hunwald departed, and the chilly look on her face grew colder when Elfwine refused to leave the comfort of his aunt's lap.

"I do not mind," Gúthwyn muttered out of the corner of her mouth, bouncing her nephew up and down so that he was diverted from the minor argument with his mother.

Lothíriel's eyes narrowed, but not wishing to make a scene she chose instead to pretend that Gúthwyn had not spoken. Turning to Éomer, she said quietly as the next contest was being set up, "The woman who was selling ribbons, Wífwen, is looking for work. One of my attendants is carrying a child; she shall not be in my service for much longer, I am afraid. With your permission, may I consider her for the position?"

"Of course," Éomer said genially. Gúthwyn detected relief in his voice, which had sprung up as soon as it was implied that Wífwen would merely be a replacement, not an addition. The number of workers employed at Meduseld was kept to a minimum, so that the cost of maintaining their household would not run so high. As always, their financial situation was not so comfortable that they could afford to hire many maids—especially since the royal siblings were adamant about paying them excellent wages.

Somewhat apprehensive about appointing a woman who clearly disliked her to work in Meduseld, Gúthwyn returned her attentions to Elfwine. "How are you holding up, little one?" she asked him, smiling in amusement when she saw him still playing with his ribbon.

"What this?" Elfwine responded, poking at the fabric.

"That is a ribbon," she replied, emphasizing the last word. "Can you say ribbon?"

He made several valiant attempts at the pronunciation, each of them more laughable than the last, but all too soon the second contest had begun and she shushed him gently. "Watch the men," she whispered in his ear, and lifted his chin so that he could look out at the people over whom he would someday rule.

A group of older men had come out onto the field, and her eyes widened slightly to see that Lebryn was amongst them. She had not spoken to the man often since the birth of his daughter; she wondered if Celewen, his wife, was even present. From what she had heard, Onyveth was an excessively ill child. Her few attempts to offer aid to the poor infant had been rejected; Lebryn was too proud to accept her help unless he had no alternative.

Now, however—to both her surprise and immediate wariness—Lebryn turned around and met her gaze. A smirk tugged at his lips, and she had less than a second to inwardly groan before he began sauntering towards her. She could only thank the Valar that few were watching him, given the presence of the others (all of whom were going about asking their wives or sisters for favors), but when he approached the box and gave her a wicked grin she had a feeling this would not be the case for long.

"I would like to request a token from Lady Gúthwyn," he announced boldly, making his voice unnecessarily loud so that it carried across the arena.

Gúthwyn thought that her face had set on fire, it was burning so much. Cursing Lebryn for embarrassing her in front of everyone, for now practically the entire crowd had turned to watch, she managed to rise without jolting Elfwine and made her way forward, balancing the child on her hip and praying that she would not trip.

"You have a wife!" she hissed upon having successfully completed her motions.

Lebryn smiled cheekily. "It would be improper for you to refuse."

She sighed at his antics. "As you wish," she answered shortly, wondering what sort of satisfaction he was deriving from this. Tightening her grip on Elfwine, she leaned over and held her arm out. "You will have to untie it, I cannot let go of him."

"As you wish," he mimicked her, and deftly loosened the ribbon's knot. When he was holding it, she made to pull away, but before she could he caught her hand and placed a thoroughly obnoxious, exaggerated kiss on it.

In spite of herself, she burst out laughing. Had anyone else done the same thing, she would have likely recoiled in disgust. But this was Lebryn, a man she had known since he was a boy, and more importantly a man who clearly did not desire her at all. "Lebryn, you animal!" she exclaimed, giggling even more when he winked roguishly at the crowd, eliciting good-natured shouts from the stands. Only a thread of unease reminded her that Elphir and Imrahil were watching her.

Lebryn finally released her hand. "My apologies if it was a bit overdone," he said easily, "but I _do_ like irritating royalty… and your prince is seething rather fantastically. Send him my regards."

With that, he grinned one last time and strode away, absent-mindedly tying her ribbon around his wrist. Gúthwyn's mouth opened slightly, realizing what had just happened: it was Lebryn's under-handed, off-setting means of getting his revenge on Elphir. He was not inclined to show concern for any distress she might have felt after the collapse of the marriage negotiations, so he had compensated for it by humiliating the man who had caused her unhappiness.

"Good luck," she whispered to her friend, knowing that he would not hear it.

Lebryn did not win the contest, but he came in second and that was certainly good enough for her. Under Elphir's steadily darkening gaze—which would have burnt holes into her back, if it had the power—she happily accepted the return of her favor, congratulating Lebryn on a job well done. When she reassumed her seat, Lothíriel's eyes were almost black in their anger.

The archery contests went on. Each of them had been designed so that they were unlike the previous one; a clever maneuver, as otherwise the crowd would have grown bored. Gúthwyn's attention never wavered from the games, especially since Rohan was doing so well. Her friends from the training grounds took it in turns to represent her—she suspected they were following Lebryn's example and snubbing Elphir.

There was one man, however, who never approached her and whose absence she felt the most keenly: Tun. He had participated in a couple of the rounds, each time with Brithwen's ribbon tied firmly around his wrist. She observed him out of the corner of her eye, noting with sadness how all the happiness had disappeared from his features. It was as though the light had gone out of them when she refused to wed him, and had yet to return.

_Oh, Tun,_ she thought miserably, _I wish our friendship could return to the way it was before._

At this rate, she was beginning to doubt that it ever would. Their conversations were always strained, lacking the former easiness with which they had once addressed each other. He sometimes sparred with her on the training grounds, but all of the playful banter they used to exchange while parrying had disappeared, replaced by an awful silence. It was as though his marriage to Brithwen and her betrothal to Elphir had driven a wall between them, one that they were both too hurt to bring down.

"Gúthy!"

Elfwine's cry echoed in her ear, yanking her out of her thoughts.

"Yes, little one?" she asked, looking down at him and smiling to see his tiny finger pointing towards the targets.

"Eff!"

That was a new word. Gúthwyn knitted her brow, trying to figure out what he meant. Had he shortened his own name, or that of Elphir's?

"Eff!" her nephew cried again, bouncing up and down in her lap.

"Where?" Gúthwyn inquired, lifting her head to gaze out across the arena. For the briefest instant, her heart skipped a beat.

Legolas and the other Elves had joined the men of Rohan and Dol Amroth for what was to be the final archery contest. Éomund's daughter was surprised that she had not noticed their presence quicker: at the sight of the graceful, tall beings, the crowd had begun to murmur excitedly amongst themselves. Haldor's continual threats to the children firmly in her mind, Gúthwyn tightened her hold on Elfwine and kissed the top of his head, as if to make sure that he was still there.

"I must say, I am quite looking forward to this," she heard Éomer confiding in Lothíriel. "Even if it does mean that my men are put to shame."

"If they had thousands of years to practice, I am sure they would be just as talented as the Elves," Lothíriel replied with a smile. Gúthwyn thought that the gesture was pretty, when it was not the tight, false one she so often received.

"Ah, here comes Legolas now!" Éomer exclaimed.

Gúthwyn's head snapped up so fast that she got a crick in her neck. Trying not to wince, she fixed her gaze upon the approaching Elf, wondering what he wanted. She was relieved to discover that the mere sight of him no longer made her heart pound—though it did give the smallest flutter of anxiety—and that her palms were not even sweating. Now that she thought about it, her shoulders had not tensed either.

Legolas halted before the box and gave a courteous bow to the royal family. For some reason, the sight of this reassured her. Haldor would never have bowed to anyone; yet here Legolas was, paying his respects to her brother. _They _are _different,_ she told herself firmly. _You should know this by now._

She was not sure what she had expected Legolas to do upon straightening, but it was certainly not to look at her and say, "If I may be so bold, I would like to represent Lady"—the word was spoken as if he had remembered it just in time—"Gúthwyn in this contest."

The noise level in the crowd had not changed, as this was a fairly standard procedure, but Gúthwyn knew that her cheeks had suddenly turned a violent shade of red. She could sense Éomer watching her keenly, for he was well aware of the fear with which she regarded the Elves. He did not realize that the one standing in front of them was he who terrified her the most.

Refusing to let herself tremble under the gazes of her brother and Legolas, she rose to her feet and slowly approached the latter. Elfwine fussed as she adjusted her hold on him so that she could untie the ribbon's knot on her own: she was not comfortable with the idea of Legolas undoing it, as had been the custom for all the other warriors.

If Legolas noticed this distinction, there was no hint of it in his expression, which remained as inscrutable as ever. Leaning over the rail of the box, trying her best not to lose her footing or the baby in her arms, Gúthwyn handed him the precious slip of green fabric. His fingers brushed against hers as he took it, but to her credit she did not flinch. The contact was still unwanted, yet it held no longer held such power over her that she was witless upon its occurrence.

"Thank you," Legolas said after the exchange, inclining his head. "I pray that your generosity will have been in good faith."

She could not help but smile at this. _Everyone knows that you or one of your friends are going to win,_ she thought, though she did not wish to potentially jinx him by saying it aloud. Instead she replied, "I do not doubt that it will."

"Eff!" Elfwine cried, not wanting to be left out of the conversation. He pointed exuberantly at Legolas, beaming up at his aunt in what could only be pride at having gotten the word—if it not its pronunciation—right.

"What is he saying?" Legolas asked, glancing amusedly at the king's heir. Gúthwyn guessed that, apart from his visits to Rohan, the language of infants was a foreign tongue to him.

"He is attempting to call you an Elf," she answered, smiling. "And failing rather miserably."

"Eff," Elfwine scoffed, pushing his soft hand into her face.

"I should not keep you," Gúthwyn managed as Legolas chuckled, though it was difficult to talk with her nephew's fingers pressed against her lips. "Good luck."

"Thank you," Legolas said. He bowed to her once more; then he turned away, her ribbon still in his slender hand. Pleased to have been able to maintain the conversation without shivering, Gúthwyn resumed her seat.

"Enough, little one," she told Elfwine, moving his arms away from her head. "I want to be able to see the tournament."

"Horse!" Elfwine snapped angrily, and thereafter settled for whacking her thigh whenever the mood struck him. Gúthwyn rolled her eyes in indulgent exasperation, but soon her attention was diverted by the sight of Legolas. He had gone back to his friends, Raniean and Trelan; the former was asking him a question. From the irritated look he gave the box, Gúthwyn guessed it was about her.

As she watched, Legolas gave a quick response and tied her ribbon around the strap of his quiver, so that it would be resting on his shoulder while he shot. He caught her eye as he stepped into the center of the arena and grinned, the action similar to Haldor's in the foolish days when she had been in love with him… and yet not so. Haldor's affection had been nothing but a precursor to terrible abuse—Legolas's smile was merely that of a friend, one of the few allies she had amidst a sea of Dol Amroth nobility.

_Enough is enough,_ she thought. _Stop living in the past. Enjoy the tournament._

She beamed back at Legolas.


	97. The Archery Games

**A/N:** Unfortunately, my updates will be less frequent from now on, because school is starting in two days and I'm going to have to deal with all the work that comes with it. I'll try to do once a week, but I can't make any guarantees. (I remember being lucky to do once every two weeks towards the end of school, ugh.) Thank you all for reading this story throughout the summer, and I hope you continue to enjoy it even if my updates take longer!**  
**

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ninety-Seven:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me. **NOTE:** By "splitting an arrow," I don't mean from nock to tip, like in that ridiculous scene from Robin Hood—I just mean about halfway or so, which is actually possible.

**Chapter Ninety-Seven**

Legolas hummed a small tune to himself as he walked away from Gúthwyn, absent-mindedly wondering what he should do with her ribbon. He felt rather uncomfortable with the idea of tying it around his wrist, especially since he preferred not to shoot with anything unnecessary upon his arms, but he did not know where else he could keep it.

Still pondering this, he rejoined his companions at the edge of the arena. Trelan nodded at him as he examined the fletching on his arrows, though Raniean raised his eyebrows and gave a pointed glance in the direction of the royal family.

"Why do you insist on consorting with the mortals?" he asked harshly, his brows slanted in distaste. "You did not need to ask for her favor."

Legolas resisted the urge to sigh. Sometimes, it was difficult to remember that Raniean had a reason for his hatred of humans—however, the offense in question had occurred so long ago, during such a dark period, that he sometimes felt that his friend's bitterness was unnecessary. Raniean's hurt was by no means trivial, but most of their kind had ceased distrusting Men when the renewed threat of Sauron had forced them to band together.

"I did so because it is polite," he answered, glancing at Raniean. "I do not know Queen Lothíriel well enough to petition to be her champion, yet Gúthwyn I consider a friend."

Raniean looked as though he were tempted to say something, but he held his tongue and contented himself with shaking his head in exasperation. He had barely come to accept Aragorn, and he would not even speak of Gimli; Legolas could not expect him to warm to Gúthwyn. It was regrettable that this was the case, but there was nothing Legolas was capable of doing about it and he had long ago ceased trying.

Thranduil's son was temporarily distracted from his thoughts by a sudden decision about where to place the ribbon. Threading the slip under the strap of his quiver, he tied it there securely so that it was upon his shoulder. It would not be a hindrance to him there.

"Are you ready?" Trelan asked, putting one last arrow into his quiver.

Legolas nodded. "I wonder how often the men of Dol Amroth train," he said as they began walking towards the center of the arena. Their companions followed closely behind them, jesting with each other about recent practices.

Raniean snorted. "If they trained half as much as they complain, we would find ourselves facing stiffer competition today."

This was a deliberate slight, but Legolas let it go, knowing fully well that his friend was right. Prince Imrahil certainly seemed pleasant-mannered, but his subjects were an entirely different matter. The lords were condescending and arrogant; the women were simply vicious. Legolas had overheard them mocking both Gúthwyn and Lothíriel on a number of occasions, and once even going so far as to belittle Elfwine. He did not understand how they could be so cruel to people they barely associated with.

"The men of Rohan are good," Trelan contributed, glancing at someone Legolas recognized to be Elfhelm, a Marshal of the realm and a close friend to the royal family. "I have seen them practicing frequently."

"When they are not living in the stables," Raniean muttered, his voice so low that Legolas barely heard it. The prince frowned, shooting him a warning look.

"They are our hosts," he reminded the other Elf. "I know you dislike humans, but at the very least they deserve more than your barely-veiled hostility."

Raniean's gaze was dark, and he did not deign to give a response. Irritated by his friend's stubbornness, yet not wishing to get into an argument, Legolas decided to cast his attentions elsewhere and found them resting upon the stands. More specifically, the box in which Éomer, Lothíriel, and Gúthwyn were seated. His eye happened to catch Gúthwyn's and he smiled, hoping to keep her at ease.

To his surprise, she grinned back, all traces of her former discomfort gone. Elfwine waved merrily at him from her lap, bouncing happily up and down. He had quite a personality; Legolas had once seen him berating Lothíriel while she was trying to feed him, claiming that he wanted Gúthwyn instead. Evidently, he shared a close bond with his aunt—Legolas thought it may have been this which made her so unconcerned in the presence of an Elf.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" one of the heralds boomed from the center of the arena, first in Rohirric and then in the Common Tongue, waving his arms for silence. The audience settled down, eager for the games to begin. "Today we are here to determine the best archer among us—each man, or Elf, shall face numerous challenges designed to test their accuracy and consistency! While it is doubtless that they will perform most admirably, it is advisable to keep a sharp watch for stray arrows."

Legolas saw some of the children in the crowd glance around nervously, while others straightened as though hoping that an arrow might fly into the stands. Gúthwyn, he noticed, had positioned her arms so that they could easily protect Elfwine, if needs be.

"The first round will have the archers shooting at targets, which my helpers will be moving farther back as time progresses." The herald indicated a group of children, too old to be content with sitting idly in the stands but too young to compete. "If anyone so much as takes an arrow out of their quiver while the targets are being adjusted, they will be immediately disqualified."

On that warning note, a page stepped forward and blew a loud blast on the horn he was carrying. It was the signal for the archers to find a target and stand in front of it, their bows at the ready.

"Good luck," Legolas said to his friends as they positioned themselves in front of the marks.

"I would say the same to you, but what with your obsessive training schedule and almost indecent concentration it is doubtful that you need it," Trelan muttered out of the corner of his mouth, smirking.

Legolas rolled his eyes. He did make a habit out of practicing several hours each morning, and in the afternoons as well if he did not have a meeting to attend, yet there was certainly nothing obsessive about that. Such experience had saved his life on countless occasions.

"Archers, at the ready!" the herald shouted, his voice loud enough so that it was able to be heard even above the excited murmurings of the crowd. Legolas reached over his shoulder for an arrow and nocked it, then drew back the bowstring. As he did so, all of his surroundings seemed to vanish, so that it was only him and that small dot painted on a wooden board. The babbling of the spectators had become inconsequential, a low humming in his ears that meant nothing.

He dimly heard the word "fire"; then, he released the arrow and watched with satisfaction as it landed neatly on the bullseye ten yards away. Only then letting himself glance around, he saw that all of the Elves—and not a few of the men—had accomplished the same feat.

They were given two more attempts at that distance. On the third, Legolas succeeded in splitting his first arrow. There was an audible intake of breath at this, and he was pleased by the achievement, though it would, of course, require him to carve out another one of the projectiles. It took a great amount of work to ensure that the craftsmanship was perfect, but it was an enjoyable task and he did not mind overmuch.

At the sound of the horn, the contestants lowered their bows and the children scurried forward to pull the targets back. Legolas saw the young boy assigned to his station staring at the split arrow before coaxing the rest out of the wood. When he returned the intact ones, Legolas thanked him and replaced them in his quiver.

"Sir?" the boy asked hesitantly, still holding the broken arrow. His hands were trembling. "May I keep this?"

"Of course," Legolas replied, smiling at this request. "Take it with my blessings."

The child's eyes widened in awe. "Thank you, sir!"

With that, he scampered away, though not before throwing Thranduil's son another deeply impressed glance. Legolas chuckled at his eagerness and watched as the boy waved to someone in the stands. He followed his gaze and saw, to his surprise, that the person returning the gesture was none other than Gúthwyn.

"Archers, at the ready!"

Éomund's daughter was forgotten as the competition went on. After one horrible shot in which he was an inch away from the inner circle of the target, he immediately resolved to focus harder than ever before. The rest of his tries were much more acceptable, and he even managed to split another arrow.

When the targets had been moved back as far as they could go, the round was pronounced complete. Those who had not performed sufficiently lowered their bows and walked to the sidelines; those who had—a smattering of men from the Riddermark and Dol Amroth, as well as all of the Elves—remained where they stood.

The next round required the competitors to hit a stationary object while upon their horses. The object in question was a faceless dummy, held up by a wooden pole, though the markings on its clothes looked suspiciously like those of the Haradrim. Legolas recalled that the Southrons' _mûmakil_, otherwise known as oliphaunts, had been responsible for the trampling of many a Rider and their steed.

Arod was brought out to him by one of the stableboys, tossing his head proudly and clearly ready to meet the challenge. Legolas stroked his mane, whispering in Elvish, "There will be a reward in this for you, I promise."

Arod whinnied softly, then stood perfectly still as Legolas mounted him. All around, Thranduil's son saw the other archers doing the same. The men from Rohan were grinning: they were certain to have an advantage here, as they worked so well with their horses that one could almost mistake a Rider and his mount for a single creature. The nobles of Dol Amroth, however, did not look concerned in the slightest. More than once, Legolas noticed the warriors from different realms glaring at each other.

"Competitors, you are to take turns riding in a circle around the target," the herald declared, cupping his hands around his mouth so that his voice was louder. His words were mainly for the benefit of the spectators, as all of the participants had been informed of the rules beforehand. "For every lap around the arena, you must take at least one shot. Aim downwards, so as not to shoot into the stands. You are allowed ten attempts—make them count!"

The roaring of the crowd ringing in his ears, Legolas guided Arod over to where the others had queued, ready to begin circling when the signal was given. A barrier had been constructed between them and the rest of the arena, so that they and their horses would be protected from any stray arrows. Wishing that he could see the other competitors, Legolas fell in place with Raniean and Trelan. The latter gave a very audible sigh.

"Here comes the prince," he muttered theatrically to Raniean. "I expect we shall have to let him win, as always."

"I will tell your father," Legolas threatened. Normally, such an action would have been accompanied by him mock-pointing one of his knives at his friend, but he had left them in his room for the day and was unfortunately short-handed for weapons.

Trelan smirked. "A lot of good that will do, considering how often he speaks with _your_ father."

It was certainly a lost cause. "We shall see who is laughing at the end of this contest," Legolas warned, barely able to conceal his grin.

"Think what you will, prince," Raniean replied disdainfully. Legolas was not entirely sure whether his sudden haughtiness was due to their "argument" or the fact that a noble from Dol Amroth had just asked him if their position in line was important.

"It is not," Legolas informed him: Raniean, though fully capable of speaking the Common Tongue, was stubbornly insistent upon keeping to Sindarin whenever there were mortals present. Viewing Westron as a crude language and thoroughly resenting the tutor who had made him learn it, he swore never to utter it unless he was ordered to. The last sentiment had always been followed by a warning glare, as if to suggest that he would mutiny if Legolas ever tried to do such a thing.

Just then, another horn blast echoed throughout the arena, signaling the start of the contest. The first rider set off at a gallop; Legolas thought it might have been Gamling, the Captain of Éomer's guard, but it was difficult to tell amidst the dust clouds being created by his horse. Unfortunately, the barrier erected between the men and the rider made it impossible for them to track his progress, and over the enthusiastic cheering of the crowd—the man was clearly well-liked—they could not tell whether his arrow had hit the target.

However, a sudden upswing in the amount of applause could mean only one thing: that the man's first lap had been successful. Legolas estimated how much time it had taken him to complete it and then counted the rest in his head, the reactions of the audience enough to inform him how well the rider was doing. He was an exceptional archer: five of his shots were hits, and the others must have been very close misses.

The rider did not return behind the barrier when he was finished; instead, the page's horn sounded a second time, and the next contestant rode out in his place. This pattern continued for a quarter of an hour—the applause noticeably dipping when the men of Dol Amroth took their turns—until the first Elf, Faelon, was up. Whereas before there had been shouts of encouragement from the stands, now there was an undercurrent of murmuring, punctured by awed gasps as Faelon's arrows hit their mark.

Legolas smiled, glad to hear Faelon doing so well. He had been known to have difficulties shooting things from horseback; it was a common joke in the colony to say that the likelihood of another's boast was comparable to the chances of Faelon actually managing to hit his intended target from atop his steed. He was one of the few Elves Legolas knew who preferred the sword to a bow, and he had spent much time honing his skill.

"He missed a couple," announced Raniean, who had been listening for the impact of arrowhead upon wood. "But he did well otherwise, and certainly the oafs before him did not fare better."

Legolas had had enough. "Raniean, please," he said quietly.

It was the tone of his voice that resonated louder in his friend's ears than the actual words. Raniean shrugged, and thereafter kept his disparaging comments to himself. It was a shame, Legolas thought, that being in the company of Men turned Raniean into such a foul-tempered person. Normally he was perfectly friendly and at ease in his surroundings, laughing and joking as much as the next Elf. Yet here, surrounded by humans, his hatred for their race brought out the worst in him.

Raniean rode out then, and this time the cries of amazement were even more audible. The Elf was an excellent marksman—when he was angry, especially so. All of his rage channeled into a cold concentration that was chilling to behold. Legolas and Trelan had often said that it was not wise to cross their companion, and it was times like these that proved them right.

From the sound of things, every single one of Raniean's shots landed.

"Perhaps now his mood will improve," Trelan suggested, though without much hope in his speech.

"Or not," Legolas replied, knowing that Raniean would not be happy until they put Rohan firmly behind them.

"Well… wish me luck!" Trelan said when it was his turn, readying his bow.

Legolas obliged, and then listened as his friend began riding around the arena. He was the last competitor, and utterly alone; absent-mindedly, he fingered Gúthwyn's ribbon and wondered how she was doing. To his relief, she no longer seemed as frightened of him as she had once been. If he caught her at unawares, he could still detect glimpses of nervousness in her gaze, but otherwise she appeared perfectly normal. Apart from her reserved behavior and his cautiousness, a casual observer would not have noticed anything unusual about their interactions.

As enthusiastic clapping from the crowd echoed in his ears, he mentally shook his head. There would be plenty of time to think about Gúthwyn later—right now, he had a competition to win. (That was, assuming he did well enough.) He waited until he heard the sharp horn blast and then nudged Arod out into the arena, adrenaline pulsing through his veins.

A solid wall of applauding spectators greeted him, only a few of the people familiar. Legolas scanned the area and saw that Trelan's arrows had been pulled out of the target, leaving Thranduil's son with a clean slate. As he fitted one of his own to his bow, the noise of the audience gradually receded to a faint humming in his ears—but not before he thought he heard a shrill cry of "Eff!"

Nearing the halfway point of his first lap, he raised his bow and focused on the target's face, which was already peppered with holes from previous archers. Narrowing his eyes, he followed the head as Arod cantered around it, making sure that the tip of his arrow did not waver. When the time was right, he took his shot and watched as it flew into the dummy's mouth.

As he began his second pass, Legolas swiftly compiled a list of the body parts he intended to hit. _Eyes, neck, heart_; there were also a number of places where a person could bleed to death within minutes if cut there, but he would have enough problems getting the eyes. If time and fortune permitted, then he would see to the vulnerable locations.

_Twang._ He released another arrow, this time straight to the chest. It landed a little closer to the sternum than he would have liked, but it was still embedded in the heart. He caught sight of Gúthwyn as he rode by the royal family's box, her face determinedly inscrutable yet her arms wrapped protectively around Elfwine. She was not only guarding the child from stray arrows; she was guarding him against the Elves.

A sudden rush of hatred towards Haldor propelling his motions, Legolas took aim and shot at the target. Such was the force of his action that, almost instantaneously, the right eye had split under his arrowhead: a far more satisfactory result than his previous turn. He loathed the fact that an innocent woman abhorred his race for the crimes that only one of them had committed, and he despised being the person to share the likeness of that monster.

_Concentrate,_ he reminded himself sternly as he neared the end of his third lap.

His next shot hit the back of the target's head; he quickly reloaded and bestowed the same fate upon the next. After that, he was simply picking places and aiming at them. The final six attempts successfully penetrated the left eye, the bridge of its nose, various spots on the neck, and the forehead. He slowed Arod down to a trot once he had finished, grinning at the sight of the beaten target.

As more children came forward to retrieve the arrows, he steered his horse over to where the other archers were. "Thank you for bearing me, my friend," he murmured, patting him as he drew closer to his companions.

"Well done," Trelan complimented him, clasping his hand in a congratulatory manner. "You should have seen Raniean; from what I heard, he shot every single one of his arrows into the throat."

Legolas cast a glance over at Raniean, who had dismounted from his horse and was surveying his surroundings in a very bored manner. "He did well."

Trelan shrugged. "I think it would be best to leave him alone for awhile. You know him, he is too stubborn for his own good."

"That I do," Legolas replied with a faint smile, jumping down from Arod. Raniean looked their way and, not wanting his friend to get the wrong impression, he changed the subject. "Who is passing on to the next round?"

"Two men from Rohan: their Marshals, Erkenbrand—I think, I could barely understand the name—and I believe the other is Elfhelm."

Legolas nodded, familiar with the warriors. They were often on hand to dine with the royal family, and he had spoken to them a few times.

"No one from Dol Amroth met the cut, though had this contest not been on horseback I daresay they would have performed better," Trelan continued. "They have keen eyesight; they just do not manage their steeds well enough."

It was not difficult to see why the horses of the more pompous nobles objected to bearing their riders.

"All of us are in," Trelan finished, gesturing to the Elves, "even Faelon."

Legolas nodded. "Good."

After the target—looking much the worse for having been hit so many times—had been removed from the arena, the herald addressed everyone once more. "The third and final contest," he announced, "will test the accuracy of each participant. In order to succeed, they must shoot the arrow through a straw and onto a target!"

There was a murmur of amazement as the boards were again set up, the cast-iron "straws" secured atop polls several feet in front of them. At best, it was an immensely difficult shot: the rim of the tube was perhaps two inches in diameter, no part of which could the arrow hit without being shattered to pieces. If the archer managed to clear this obstacle, there was still the matter of the target beyond.

Having performed similar feats, but with wider diameters for the straws, Legolas was eager to meet this new challenge. He decided to concentrate on simply getting the arrow through the straw first; then, he would worry about adjusting the angle. A ten-yard distance might not seem like much, but he knew it was very easy to miscalculate a shot and he had no intentions of doing so.

"Archers, take your positions!" the herald shouted. Legolas found a target to stand in front of and thanked the boy who gave him his arrows from the previous challenge, noting that it was the same who had waved to Gúthwyn earlier. Elfhelm tousled the boy's hair affectionately as he raced by; evidently, they were kin of some sort.

Taking a deep breath, Legolas gazed at the iron straw. When the signal was given, he lifted his bow and fitted an arrow to it, then drew the string back and sighted the target. For two seconds, he was still; then, he let go of the bowstring, and watched as his arrow sailed through the straw. It landed about three inches above the center of the next target.

Already calculating the necessary angle adjustments, Legolas observed the remaining archers. Raniean and Trelan were both successful, but Faelon's hit the rim and with a loud noise splintered into hundreds of fragments. Elfhelm managed to get his through the straw, yet it just fell short of the second target. The others were similarly stumped. _Ah well,_ he thought, pulling another arrow out of his quiver._ We have four more tries._

Unfortunately, those did not seem to any good. He and Raniean were the only ones who hit the target on every single attempt: Trelan's fifth had seen the fletching of his arrow just grazing the inside of the straw, the result being that it veered off-course and sank into the ground. Unsure of whether there would even be a next round, Legolas checked his and Raniean's targets.

He privately thought he had shot better, simply because one of his had been lucky enough to hit the center, whereas all of Raniean's were grouped closely around it. But he was not about to say so, especially since his friend was probably irritated with him enough already. In any case, if there was a points system for the different rings that had been painted on the targets, it was entirely possibly that Raniean had beaten him.

His latter guess was correct. The group of boys scurried out and began pointing to the circles, counting loudly in Rohirric. Some were finished much more quickly than others; the child examining Raniean's target had to start over several times. When all were done they converged so swiftly that Legolas blinked, and spent quite a few chaotic moments shouting out numbers.

At last they broke apart, and the boy who had waved to Gúthwyn raced over to the herald. He bounced up and down as he gave his verdict. From the unsurprised look on the herald's face, Legolas guessed that an Elf had won. He was right.

"The winner is Prince Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen!" the herald cried, stumbling over the name of what had formally been known as the far more pronounceable Mirkwood. A roar of applause met his words; Legolas could not ever remember having made this much of an impression on the Eorlingas, but he was glad nonetheless for their support.

"You did well," Legolas said to Raniean, offering his hand. Renouncing their previous disagreement, Raniean shook it, saying:

"So did you, little prince."

"I am only a hundred years younger than you," Legolas pointed out, mildly indignant.

Raniean opened his mouth, likely to deliver a scathing retort, but at that moment Trelan joined them and said, "Well done, Legolas—you should claim your prize from the queen."

Legolas nodded. He also had a favor to return. "Thank you," he answered, and reaching behind him he attached his bow to his quiver. Once that was finished and the weapon out of his way, he loosened the knot of Gúthwyn's ribbon and began walking towards the royal family. As he came to the box, Lothíriel smiled politely at him.

"Congratulations," she said, gracefully leaning over and presenting him with a trophy. It was wrought of iron and featured an Elf upon horseback, aiming at an unseen target. Clearly, the king and queen had not been expecting a victory for Rohan.

"Thank you," Legolas replied, taking his prize and bowing. This pleased the queen: her warmth was more genuine as she returned to Éomer's side. Legolas paid the same respects to the king and then looked at Gúthwyn, who flushed under his gaze but determinedly held it. Seeing that he still had her favor, she rose to her feet, shifting Elfwine onto her hip.

"Eff!" Elfwine cried ecstatically, reaching out for him.

"Hush, little one," Gúthwyn murmured, pulling his hand back. Only Legolas saw the momentary trace of fear that crossed her features.

"Thank you for letting me represent you," Legolas said when she was less distracted. "And thank you for your hospitality."

By the slight widening of her eyes, Legolas knew that she had recognized his gratitude for not merely this visit, but for every single time she had endured his presence in her home.

"You are welcome," she responded steadily, accepting the ribbon when he held it out to her. "You… you performed well—I mean, wonderfully."

"Eff!" Elfwine shrieked as his aunt was busy blushing. He strained forward to grab Thranduil's son, falling a few feet short of his goal.

Gúthwyn giggled at her nephew's antics, the sound refreshing to Legolas's ears. "This is Legolas, little one," she told the baby. "Can you say 'Legolas'?"

Elfwine beamed, still trying to reach Legolas with his tiny forefinger. "Leg," he declared simply. "Leg is Eff."

Grinning at his new nickname, Legolas raised his hand and let Elfwine touch it. The contact was not extended, as he did not wish to worry Gúthwyn, but Elfwine seemed satisfied and let go with a wave. When Legolas glanced back up, he saw that the brief exchange had gone a long way in Gúthwyn's eyes. Clearly, anything that pleased her nephew could not have been a bad thing; she smiled shyly at him and mouthed, "Thank you."

Legolas inclined his head. "I am at your service," he replied, "as well as Elfwine's."

He had never seen so many of Gúthwyn's teeth.


	98. Jousting

**A/N:** Two words: school sucks. That is all.

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ninety-Eight:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Ninety-Eight**

As Gúthwyn sat back down, still smiling from her encounter with Legolas, Lothíriel leaned over and said, "I would like to take Elfwine back."

"Time to go to Mama, little one," Gúthwyn informed her nephew cheerfully, despite not wanting to part with him.

Elfwine stuck his tongue out at Lothíriel. "No."

"I am sorry, Elfwine, but you must," Gúthwyn murmured, scooping him up in her arms and handing him to Lothíriel.

"Gúthy stay!" Elfwine shrieked in alarm, forcing Lothíriel to quickly grab him when he lunged at Éomund's daughter.

"I am right here," Gúthwyn promised, reaching out and touching his hand. "See?"

Elfwine scowled, and set about appropriately fuming for the next five minutes. Gúthwyn could not help but feel jealous of Lothíriel, the lucky woman who could call herself Elfwine's mother.

"Gúthwyn?"

Turning, Gúthwyn saw Haiweth leaning forward curiously, her eyes fixed on the arena. "What are they doing?" she asked excitedly, golden curls going everywhere as she bounced up and down.

Having not paid attention to the setting up of the next contest, Gúthwyn took the opportunity to do so. Her eyes fell upon a group of men carrying what looked like a low wall to the center of the ring. At the bottom were planks sticking out of each side, so that the barrier could be staked into the ground.

"They are preparing for the jousting," she explained, facing Haiweth once more. "The wall is so that the horses do not get injured." As the sport required two men to ride straight at each other and attempt to unseat their opponent by a well-aimed thrust of their lance, their mounts were at great risk of being injured. Naturally suspicious of such an activity, Éomer and the committee he had hired to oversee the tournament arrangements had ordered the wall to be constructed, so that the horses could be protected.

"What about the men?" Haiweth inquired. "Will they get hurt?"

"They will be wearing armor," Gúthwyn assured her. "I expect it might be painful if they get thrown from their horse, but they know the risks."

Haiweth nodded, though she looked slightly apprehensive.

"Would you like to come closer?" Gúthwyn asked, indicating a bench to her right that had not yet been filled. "There is room for both you and Hammel up here."

The effect was instantaneous. Haiweth beamed, causing Gúthwyn also to smile. "Hammel!" the girl cried, turning around in her seat. "Gúthwyn says we can watch from the front!"

Hammel hesitated, evidently torn between not wanting to sit near Éomund's daughter—Gúthwyn's grin faltered—and desiring to see the contests better. "Fine," he muttered at last, getting slowly to his feet. Alphros cast him an envious stare.

"Oh, Papa!" he exclaimed, tugging at Elphir's arm. "Can I move up, too? Please?"

"No, Alphros," was Elphir's reply, accompanied by a surly glance in Gúthwyn's direction. "You can see perfectly well from here."

"But—"

"I do not wish to repeat myself," Elphir said sternly.

Alphros sighed unhappily, the crestfallen expression on his face enough to make Gúthwyn's heart twist. Angrily he muttered, "You are no fun."

Quick as a flash, Elphir clamped his hand down on his son's shoulder. "Behave," he warned. "If you have nothing pleasant to say, then refrain from uttering it."

Alphros's eyes filled with tears. "Yes, Papa," he whispered miserably.

"Elphir," Gúthwyn ventured timidly, hating to see the boy so upset, "there is plenty of space for him to—"

The hard look Elphir gave her stopped her right in her tracks. "I do not recall asking your opinion," he said coldly.

Gúthwyn glanced at Alphros, who was watching her in the hopes that she might convince his father to let him change his seat, but she knew that she would get nowhere by overriding Elphir's decision. "I am sorry," she murmured, and gave an apologetic smile to Alphros before turning around.

"Elphir is mean," muttered Haiweth, who had been watching the exchange. "I do not like him anymore."

"He used to be a wonderful man," Gúthwyn sighed, careful to keep her voice low.

"I want to play with Alphros," Haiweth complained, "but Elphir never lets him do anything!"

Gúthwyn nodded. "Poor child," she mused. "He must be bored to death, with only adults for company." As far as she knew, no one else from Dol Amroth had brought along young children—and Elphir was not about to let his son associate with Rohirric peasantry.

Haiweth was about to respond, but suddenly she sat up straighter and pointed at the arena. "They have finished!"

Obligingly, Gúthwyn directed her gaze in the direction of Haiweth's finger and saw that the men who had been erecting the wall were now walking to the side. Squires had brought out horses for all of those who had entered their name in the lists, and the atmosphere in the stands was full of excitement as the participants began putting on their armor.

Her heart gave a small pang as she spotted Tun, his face disappearing into his helmet and his body already covered in plates. She knew Brithwen was somewhere in the crowd, watching him; he would undoubtedly seek her favor again, rather than Gúthwyn's. It was only proper, as they were husband and wife, but a small, selfish part of her wanted him to ask for _her_ ribbon, rather than Brithwen's. All of her companions had represented her at one point or another, and no harm had come from it. She had once been close friends with Tun—why could he not honor their past and assume the role of her champion, even if it were only for one contest?

"Who will be going first?" Haiweth asked, who had not noticed Gúthwyn's interest wandering.

Taken out of her thoughts, Gúthwyn had to adjust to the change of topic before she was able to respond. "I am not sure," she answered truthfully. "I believe people are chosen at random."

Haiweth rose in her seat and craned her neck to see into all corners of the box. "Where did Éomer go?"

Gúthwyn started guiltily and whirled around, only to realize that her brother had already gone down to join the other jousters. He had hinted that he would participate, and she had completely forgotten to wish him good luck!

"When did Éomer leave?" she questioned Lothíriel, whose wrist was no longer decorated by a green ribbon.

Lothíriel looked at her exasperatedly. "While you were busy irritating my brother."

Her voice was low, yet Gúthwyn saw Imrahil glance at them and frown.

"Papa play!" Elfwine exclaimed happily, waving a toy horse in the air.

"Where is he now?" Gúthwyn asked, deliberately ignoring Lothíriel's attitude.

"He is changing into his armor, as you would have realized had you been paying the slightest bit of attention," Lothíriel answered, in a tone that all but dared her to pose another inquiry.

Gúthwyn thought briefly about giving a response and decided against it, as every sentence that she could conjure up was more scathing than the last. "Éomer has gone to join the lists," she instead informed Haiweth. "I believe he left while we were talking to Elphir."

Haiweth fairly squealed in anticipation. "Will he win?"

Gúthwyn laughed at her excitement. "If he performs well," she replied. She happened to glance towards the box's entrance as she spoke, and was startled to see Legolas walking through it. She had forgotten that, as an honored guest, Éomer would have reserved a seat for him as well; either that, or she had assumed that the Elf would rather remain with his people.

Legolas saw her watching him and nodded, causing her face to grow hot as she inclined her head in response. As he went to sit beside Elphir, Gúthwyn turned her head forward and, in an effort to keep her mind off of her weaknesses, leaned over to speak to Hammel. "Hammel, do you have any interest in jousting?"

Hammel's face was scornful. "No," he said rudely.

Legolas was instantly forgotten in her annoyance. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Gúthwyn put a hand on Haiweth's shoulder. "Excuse me for a moment," she whispered in the girl's ear, "but your brother and I need to have a conversation."

Haiweth nodded absent-mindedly, more important things on her mind than Hammel's insolence.

"What do you want?" the boy asked as Éomund's daughter walked over and sat on the bench next to him.

"Listen to me," Gúthwyn said, her voice deadly quiet. "I do not know why your behavior has been so disgraceful lately, but it is going to end today. You can dislike me all you want"—her heart clenched at the idea, though none of it showed upon her face—"yet while you live here by the grace of my brother, you _will_ show me respect. Cobryn and I are sick and tired of being treated like dirt by you. The only reason you have a home and an education is because other people have taken the time to care for you. If the best you can give them in return is a sneer, then perhaps you should rid us all of the inconvenience and remove yourself from Meduseld!"

Hammel simply looked at her, finally deigning to say, "You do not mean that."

Just as Elphir had done, Gúthwyn clamped the boy's arm in a vise-like grip, tightening it until she could barely feel her own fingers. "I am _this_ close to slapping you, you ungrateful child!" she hissed. "When you address me, you will do so politely! I meant my words with all of my heart"—a blatant lie—"and I _dare_ you to find a living better than what you have right now!"

Hammel tried to wrench away, but she twisted his limb so that he was unable to. "If I so much as see you roll your eyes one more time, if I hear but the faintest whisper of impudence, I swear you shall regret it for the rest of your life! Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Hammel said shortly. If looks could kill, Gúthwyn would have been dead on the spot.

"Good," Gúthwyn replied, just as tersely. "Remember that."

Without another word, she rose to her feet and relocated herself next to Lothíriel. Now that the confrontation had passed, she found that she was being assailed by a series of self-doubts, ranging everywhere from _I should not have been so harsh on him_ to concerns that perhaps Hammel actually would leave the Golden Hall.

_He has no place else to go,_ she reminded herself. _He may be angry with you, but he is not foolish. He knows that he cannot survive on his own—not yet, anyway._

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

Gúthwyn jumped as the herald's voice boomed out over the stands, followed by a loud rustling noise as everyone hastily resumed their seats. "The jousting portion of this tournament is about to begin! In front of you are several excellent warriors, all of whom will have their skill tried before the day is out. As we speak, the first name is being drawn from the lists!"

As one, the entire audience craned its neck to watch little Heahtor rummaging around in a bucket for a slip of parchment, upon which each participant had written their name. His fingers slipped and his cheeks were bright red when he at last emerged, clutching an entry and straining to read it. Gúthwyn realized that it must have been someone from Dol Amroth when the tip of Heahtor's tongue poked out between his lips, indicating that he did not understand what had been written.

Gúthwyn's blood boiled when she caught a glimpse of Lady Míriel and her friends tittering amongst themselves, clearly amused that the poor boy was illiterate in the Common Tongue. _He is just a small child, they have no right to be so condescending towards him!_ Heahtor was perfectly capable of speaking Westron, but it was unlikely that he had seen it on parchment before—and that was before one took the contestant's handwriting into account.

After a long moment, Heahtor gave up and turned the parchment over to the herald, who took one look at it and called, "Lord Tulkadan of Dol Amroth, come forth!"

Gúthwyn resisted the urge to groan as Lady Míriel's husband all but strutted forward, his shining armor appearing as though it had never been used. His arrogance was practically seeping through the plates; several of the Rohirrim who had had the misfortune to talk to him were frowning. Gamling and Elfhelm, on the other hand, had smirks on their faces, obviously hoping to be picked as his opponent.

Lord Tulkadan surveyed the line of Riders, his nose turned up against every single one of them. At last he seemed to come to a decision, and with that he signaled for his squire to bring his horse. The beast shifted uncomfortably beneath him as it was mounted, evoking muted laughter amongst the Eorlingas. Lord Tulkadan was either deaf or supremely aloof, for he took no notice as he ordered the squire to fetch him his lance.

_The Valar forbid that you actually get it yourself,_ Gúthwyn thought nastily.

Once the wretched-looking boy had handed him his weapon, Lord Tulkadan navigated his mount down the ranks of Rohirrim, coming to a halt in front of Gamling. Gúthwyn's face bore a gleeful smile as he tapped the captain on the shoulder with his lance, clearly having no idea what he was getting himself into. At once, the stands exploded with cheers and catcalls, the latter being directed at the conceited man of Dol Amroth.

Gamling paused only to get a favor from his sister before getting atop his horse, which unlike Lord Tulkadan's remained perfectly still. The two men then moved to opposite ends of the arena, everything seeking to divide them: a physical barrier, class differences, beliefs—even languages. The noble of Dol Amroth, who had earned his position in society simply by being born into wealth, and the captain of Rohan, who had achieved his rank through hard work and dedication to his king, now squared off against each other, eying their adversary's breastplate in hopes of spotting weaknesses in the armor.

"Contestants, prepare for a practice run!" the herald shouted. Accordingly, both men lifted their lances. This round was to ensure that both rider and the horse were prepared to canter alongside the barrier. It was rather pointless for the Rohirrim, as their mounts were accustomed to constraints, but no one was entirely sure about the Dol Amroth steeds and it was widely thought that it would be better to ascertain their comfort.

When the signal was given, Gamling and Lord Tulkadan rode towards each other, passing without making a single blow. They came to the ends of the field and wheeled around, facing their opponent once more.

"Contestants, prepare for the first round! And—go!"

Gúthwyn cheered wildly for Gamling as he rode against Lord Tulkadan, his lance held at the ready and his eyes narrowed in furious concentration. She saw Lady Míriel doing the same for her husband and felt a rush of hatred towards everything the nobles of Dol Amroth stood for, towards the whole of their petty little society and the horrible queen who conducted them all from her seat at Meduseld.

It was over almost before she realized it. There was a great clanging noise; then, to her everlasting delight, Lord Tulkadan was thrown right from his saddle and landed painfully on the ground. Gúthwyn actually laughed to see the pompous man twitching in agony, though when Lothíriel gave her a fierce glare she contented herself with joining the ringing applause for Gamling.

"Is he hurt?" Haiweth asked concernedly, leaning over to get a better look at Lord Tulkadan.

"I hope so," Gúthwyn and Hammel muttered simultaneously.

Each bout of jousting was given three rounds, but it might as well have ended after the first, for Lord Tulkadan fared no better in the last two. Again and again Gamling threw him from his horse, trying valiantly to keep a smirk from forming on his face. The Eorlingas were roaring with pleasure, pleased to see the vain noble getting his just desserts.

Once Lord Tulkadan had struggled to his feet a third time—which seemed to take quite awhile, though Gúthwyn had never been one for armor and could not accurately describe how cumbersome it was—Gamling rejoined the lists, grinning rather unabashedly. Both Elfhelm and Erkenbrand could be seen congratulating him wholeheartedly. Even Éomer, who as the host was expected to show minimal neutrality, smiled at the miserable sight of Lord Tulkadan.

It all went downhill for Dol Amroth from there. Every single match between the Mark and the Sea ended in the latter's defeat—a few hours ago, Gúthwyn would never have believed that she could take so much joy in watching men get rammed in the chest with lances. Prince Imrahil joked unconcernedly about his embarrassment, but Lothíriel's hands were white from clutching the armrests of her chair and Elphir's expression was nothing short of enraged.

After Aldor, the aged advisor who had entered only as a lark, unseated a minor noble (causing unchecked fits of laughter to spread throughout the stands), the herald stifled a grin and called, "Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth, come forth!"

Gúthwyn stiffened to see the man she loathed striding forward, not having expected him to participate. So far, the princes had abstained from joining the games—the sole exception being Erchirion, who had competed in a round of archery and claimed a prize from his sister—but now that one was, a wave of excited whispers rolled through the crowd.

Unlike most of his companions, who were unfamiliar with the men of Rohan and had taken awhile to decide who they would match themselves against, Amrothos did not hesitate at all before leaping up onto his horse. With the eyes of everyone in the arena upon him, he guided his mount languidly down the lines, casting disinterested looks at the finest of Rohan's warriors.

Then, to Gúthwyn's horror, he stopped right in front of Tun, and tapped her champion's shoulder with his lance. As usual, the stands reverberated with cheering from the Rohirrim, but the throat of Éomund's daughter was suddenly dry and she could hardly breathe for fear. Nothing good would come out of this, she was sure. _No, please, not Tun,_ she found herself thinking. _Please, do not choose him!_

Satisfied that the younger man had accepted, Amrothos turned around and rode right to the box of the royal family. For one wild moment, Gúthwyn thought that he would ask _her_ for her favor, despite Cobryn's words to the contrary, but instead he fixed his gaze on Lothíriel.

"May I have the pleasure of representing my dear sister?" he inquired.

Lothíriel nodded, a smile crossing her features. Standing up, she switched Elfwine to her right hip and untied the knot of her ribbon, then leaned over and presented it to Amrothos. Her movements were far more graceful than any of her rival's had been.

Gúthwyn was so intent on watching the exchange that she did not notice a second rider approaching the box. What she did mark, however, was the sharp upswing in the noise level. Glancing around to see what had caused it, her heart skipped several beats when she saw Tun making his way over to the royal family. A thin thread of hope, one that she hardly dared to maintain, vibrated painfully within her.

While Amrothos rode away to the other end of the field, Tun came to a halt in front of the box. "If I may," he began, his voice strong but containing a hint of nervousness, "I would like to carry my lady's favor."

As though she were in a dream, Gúthwyn rose to her feet and walked towards her champion. Untying her ribbon, she gave it to him, their eyes meeting briefly. Swallowing her regret for the mistake she had made three years ago, she whispered, "Good luck, Tun."

"Thank you, my lady," he replied, gently looping the token around his own wrist.

The sight of her champion gazing up at her instilled a sharp sense of foreboding. "Be careful, will you?" she asked desperately, having a childish urge to hold him back and keep him from riding against Amrothos.

"I will," he promised, and the smile he gave her, so reminiscent of their old friendship, nearly tore her heart in two. She did not want Tun to face Amrothos. She wanted him to return to the stands—yes, to Brithwen's side if need be—and sit there safely, rather than enter a contest that now seemed like a silly excuse to break one's neck.

Unfortunately, she had no such power over her champion. Instead she straightened as he steered his horse away from her, and then watched him maneuver to the opposite side of the barrier. She did not realize that she was clutching the rail of the box so hard until she felt her fingers cramping, and even then she did not let go.

"Contestants, prepare for a practice run!"

Tun and Amrothos obliged, causing shivers to run up and down Gúthwyn's spine when she saw the fierce look in the prince's eyes.

"Gúthwyn, sit down," Lothíriel said, her voice sounding far away. Éomund's daughter could tell that the polite tone in her words was more for the benefit of her father than anything.

"No," she said abruptly, gritting her teeth together. Her champion and Amrothos had turned around to face each other once more.

"Contestants, prepare for the first round!"

Gúthwyn thought she would be sick. The two men rode straight at each other, the pounding of their horses' hooves audible even over the roaring in her ears. She held onto the railing tightly, feeling dizzy with fear as they both hefted their lances. _Please, keep Tun safe,_ she prayed frantically, her arms shaking. _Please do not let him come to harm, please…_

Her heart nearly failed as they both thrust their lances. The weapons shattered, each having hit its mark on the opponent of the owner. Tun swayed dangerously in his saddle, but stayed on. Amrothos barely even moved.

"Gúthy back!"

For once, Gúthwyn did not heed Elfwine's command. Having gotten new lances from their squires, Tun and Amrothos were readying themselves for a second charge, waiting to ride at the herald's signal. The fact that her champion had gone through one pass without injury did not make her feel any less uneasy; she was now wringing her sweaty hands, doing her best to keep from panicking.

Again, the two men rode down the barrier. This time, both of them had to adjust quickly in order to prevent themselves from falling. Gúthwyn was practically beside herself with anxiety as they faced each other for the third and final round. _Let it be over,_ she moaned silently. _Let it be done, let him escape…_

"And—go!"

Time seemed to slow down as Tun and Amrothos converged on the center of the barrier, their lance tips shaking and their brows slanted in focus. The cheering of the crowd became a distant humming in Gúthwyn's ears, only serving as a distraction from her champion. She gave up twiddling her thumbs and grabbed at the railing again, for a terrible moment actually thinking she was going to vomit. She did not want the inevitable collision to occur; every fiber in her being screamed against it.

And then, the action lasting only a few seconds but to Gúthwyn taking forever to complete, Tun hefted his lance and thrust it at Amrothos. Simultaneously, the prince leaned to the side, a clever maneuver designed to avoid the brunt of the blow. While Tun was still approaching him he flung his own weapon, riding past as it struck Gúthwyn's champion full in the chest.

The force of the hit was such that the lance shattered upon impact. Gúthwyn stared in horror as Tun was thrown ten, twenty feet into the air. The spectators from Rohan collectively groaned, yet no one but Gúthwyn had seen the look of panic in her champion's eyes. Dozens of men had been unhorsed—only Éomund's daughter had any reason to know that something had gone wrong, that this was not a normal fall.

She dimly heard herself scream, "TUN!" as the man plummeted towards the ground, landing with the horrible sound of armor clanking against itself. He lay flat on his back, one leg twisted beneath him, his shoulder sticking out at an unnatural angle. A couple of the men muttered at this, but most were too busy bemoaning the results of the bout to realize what had happened.

Without thinking, Gúthwyn bolted from the box, nearly bowling someone over as she pushed open the gate. She scraped together a hasty apology and stumbled down the stairs, hearing her name being called from where the royal family was sitting but refusing to heed it. Close to where she ended up was a door that led out onto the field—she threw herself against it and burst out into the arena, not caring what she must have looked like, only concerned with Tun.

By now, Erkenbrand was walking towards his nephew, clearly worried that he had not yet risen. Gúthwyn was close behind; the men made way for her as she sprinted towards her champion, fear propelling her every movement. Skidding to a stop beside Erkenbrand, ignoring the protests from her ankle, she dropped to her knees and cried, "Tun!"

He did not respond, nor did he stir when she prodded him on the shoulder. She did not shake him, in case he had broken something, but when he gave no sign of being able to move she knew she would have to take off his helmet. Erkenbrand crouched down next to her as she began to do so.

Finding herself slipping into the role Borogor had assumed whenever there was an accident on the training grounds, she turned to the Marshal and asked, "Did you hear anything crack?" As she spoke, she cupped the base of Tun's skull in her palm so that it was not jostled when she removed the helmet. Her champion's face was pale, and his eyes closed; yet she quickly ran her hands through his hair and determined that he was not bleeding.

"No," Erkenbrand replied, "but there was too much shouting. I would not have—my lord."

Éomer had just come over, his worried frown looming over both of them. "Sister, you should get back to your seat," he told her. "A healer will be arriving shortly; Erkenbrand and I can take care of him until then."

"No," Gúthwyn said curtly, not even bothering to look at her brother as she started on her champion's breastplate. "Tun, wake up!" she cried as she did so, hoping to rouse him from unconsciousness.

"You do not think he is…" Erkenbrand began, and then trailed off, not wanting to utter the thought.

"He is still breathing," Gúthwyn answered, pausing in her fiddling with the breastplate to hold her hand over Tun's nose and mouth. She then slapped his face, not too hard but firmly enough so that it might bring him back. "Tun, wake up!"

By now, Amrothos had realized that his opponent still had not gotten to his feet, and a familiar, loathsome voice entered Gúthwyn's ears. "He is not dead, is he?"

"_Go away!_" Gúthwyn all but shrieked. "Get out! Leave him alone!"

"Gúthwyn, calm yourself," Éomer muttered, placing a hand on her shoulder. "It was an accident, you cannot blame Amrothos for it."

"Tell him to go away," Gúthwyn hissed, trembling under her brother's touch.

"He has already left," Éomer informed her. "It would be better for you to, also…"

Gúthwyn sent him such a glare that he was quelled. Satisfied that he was no longer being foolish, she returned her attentions to Tun and finished undoing his breastplate. "Tun, wake up!" she exclaimed again, but to no avail.

"Here, let me," Erkenbrand said tersely, then leaned over and struck his nephew once, twice, three times.

The strength of the Marshal did what Gúthwyn's could not: Tun moaned faintly, his eyelids fluttering open. A surge of relief rushed through Éomund's daughter as her champion's gaze fixed first on her, then on Erkenbrand.

"My lady?" he whispered, his voice hoarse and weak. "Uncle?"

He tried to sit up, but he hissed in pain and was unable to.

"Do not move," Gúthwyn ordered him, restraining him when he attempted to do so again. "You will only make things worse."

Tun reluctantly nodded and lay back down, wincing. "What… what happened?" he asked.

"You were jousting with Amrothos, and he unhorsed you," Gúthwyn replied. "Does anything hurt?"

"My ribs," Tun gasped. "They must be broken—" He was cut off by the agony.

Gúthwyn gently touched the area he had indicated. Her champion cried out; even though prudence dictated that she could not lift his shirt, it did not take a wizard to acknowledge the truth. "They are," she responded softly, exchanging a worried glance with Erkenbrand. "Take deep breaths," she instructed, noting that his were becoming increasingly shallow. "I know it hurts, but you must."

Tun shook his head. "I"—he tensed—"cannot, my lady."

"You must," Gúthwyn repeated, "or they will not heal as quickly."

He struggled to do her bidding; Gúthwyn hated seeing his features contort in pain, but there was nothing she could do about it. "What else hurts?"

Tun thought for a moment, moving each of his limbs in turn. "My head," he grunted at length. "My shoulder, my wrist… and my leg."

"You will probably have a concussion," Gúthwyn told him. "While you are at home for the next month—yes, for the next month" (he had made a sound of protest), "you should keep a close watch on it, and you _must_ send for a healer if it gets worse."

When Tun nodded, she turned to his uncle. "Erkenbrand," she asked, "will you examine his shoulder?"

"It looks dislocated," the Marshal said grimly, yet nevertheless leaned over to take off his nephew's left pauldron.

"Is this… really… necessary?" Tun ground out, his hand flying up to stop Erkenbrand. Gúthwyn intercepted it and laid it back at his side.

"Would you rather have me leave it the way it is?" Erkenbrand retorted, though not unkindly. "Yes, this is definitely dislocated."

The removal of the pauldron showed a shoulder that was most certainly not in a normal position. Gúthwyn felt horrible for Tun, who had only wanted to joust and instead had received a series of injuries that would keep him from the training grounds for weeks.

"Are you going to set it now?" Tun inquired, trying and failing to keep a steady voice.

"Better now than later," Erkenbrand said. "Gúthwyn, if you want to leave—"

"I will stay here," Gúthwyn answered firmly. Luckily, Éomer was not around to override her decision; he had returned to his men, probably to tell them what had happened and to figure out something to keep the nobles of Dol Amroth entertained whilst his Rider was being tended to.

"My lady—" Tun began worriedly, "my uncle is right, perhaps you should… it will not be pleasant…"

Gúthwyn almost laughed to hear Tun trying to protect her from such a sight, when she had beheld far worse than he could ever imagine. "I think I can handle it," she said wryly, and gave him a reassuring smile. "Besides, it will be over soon."

Uncle and nephew had no choice but to relent. Sighing, Erkenbrand muttered, "It would be better for you to sit up, yet your ribs…"

"I can do it," Tun said quickly. The next instant, however, he gasped in pain.

"Here, let me help," Gúthwyn offered, and positioned herself behind him so that she could brace his good shoulder.

"Thank you," Tun grimaced after she had propped him up.

"Good," Erkenbrand said to Éomund's daughter. "Can you steady his other side?"

Gúthwyn nodded.

"All right," Erkenbrand murmured. "On the count of three… one, two…"

On "three," he pulled Tun's arm towards him, twisting it until with a sickening _clunk_ it popped back into place. To his credit, the younger man did not shout from the pain, but he gave a strangled moan that only increased when the action hurt his ribs. Gúthwyn shushed him as she laid him back down, smoothing his damp hair away from his brow.

"What happened?" someone inquired then, and Gúthwyn glanced up to see the healer, Halwend, coming to a halt before them. At his side, looking as though she had just fought her way through a particularly unruly crowd, was Brithwen, her eyes darting back and forth from Gúthwyn to Tun.

Noticing nothing of the sudden tension between the two women, Halwend asked, "Jousting, I presume?"

Removing her hand from Tun's forehead, Gúthwyn nodded and elaborated, "His ribs are broken, and his leg seems to be, as well. Erkenbrand just relocated his shoulder, and we still have to see to his wrist. Halwend, he needs a bier, or something upon which we can move him."

"Of course," Halwend agreed, and signaled to one of his apprentices. "Run to my house and get the stretcher—it is leaning against the wall, you will see it as you walk in. Fetch me the splinting boards, also."

The boy inclined his head and scurried away. "Faster!" Halwend shouted after him; then he turned to look Tun over. "The two of you seem to have taken good care of him," he remarked, taking the arm with the broken wrist and laying it across Tun's chest. "Lady Gúthwyn, it is a pleasant change to not have you as my patient."

Éomund's daughter laughed at this. "I expect we will see each other before long," she replied.

Halwend nodded absent-mindedly. "Brithwen, may I have those bandages? They are in the pack by your feet."

Brithwen hastily bent down to retrieve them, and as she did so Gúthwyn remembered that it was she, not Tun's wife, who was at the man's side. Flushing, she waited until Halwend had gotten his bandages and then said, "Brithwen, shall we switch places?"

A look of surprised gratitude came over the other woman's face. "Yes, let us," she agreed. Gúthwyn got up and moved closer to the healer, while Brithwen assumed the spot nearest to Tun's head.

"I told you that jousting was dangerous," she scolded lightly. "Now you shall have to stay in bed for weeks!"

Tun sighed glumly, then winced as Halwend began wrapping his wrist tightly in the bandages.

"Now," the healer said while he worked, "you should not move this for a few days. I will not even contemplate taking off this cast until a month has gone by with no further injury. Is it your sword arm?"

"Yes," Tun managed.

"In that case," Halwend replied, "I expect you to refrain from going to the training grounds for at least a week after the bones have mended. As for your ribs, those will take closer to two months to heal, which means that you will not leave your bed for half of that time—minimum, of course. Hopefully by then, your shoulder and leg will have improved."

Tun's eyes grew steadily rounder as Halwend confined him to his bed for the rest of the summer. Gúthwyn was soon afraid that they might pop out of his head, just like his shoulder had.

"I have to—"

"You can afford to miss a month or two of practice," Halwend cut him off sternly. "Brithwen, will you keep his arm above his chest while I get more bandages?"

Gúthwyn was closer to Tun's hand, but she had a sneaking suspicion that Halwend was not asking her to do the job out of respect for her status and tact for Brithwen. While the other woman was busy doing as Halwend had instructed her, Éomund's daughter sat back on her heels and glanced around the arena. The men of Rohan and Dol Amroth had congregated amongst themselves; even from several yards' distance, she could hear the latter complaining. In the audience, Lady Míriel and her friends were chattering loudly, but they were the only ones. The Eorlingas were straining to catch glimpses of Tun, their faces lined with concern.

Just then, she caught sight of Éomer striding towards them. "The bier is coming," he announced, and looked down at his fallen guard. "How are you holding up, Tun?" he asked. Ever since Gúthwyn had refused her champion's marriage proposal, Éomer had been remarkably more pleasant towards him.

"I am trying," was the faint response. "My lord, Halwend says… says I must remain in bed…"

"You are excused from your duties," Éomer said firmly. "I will see to it that you receive pension."

"Y-You are generous, m-my lord," Tun choked out, his stuttering due to gasps of pain. "I will repay you—"

"Absolutely not," Éomer and Gúthwyn said simultaneously.

Tun made to protest, but at that moment the healer's apprentice arrived, struggling to carry the bier and the boards. A few warriors had come over to assist him, including a couple of Tun's friends. Halwend was giving swift instructions not to do anything until he had made a splint for Tun's leg, but it would not be long before the task was completed. Gúthwyn made to join the soldiers, intent on helping to bring her champion to his home, but Éomer took her by the arm and stopped her.

"You have done enough," he informed her when she turned around in confusion. "Let the others care for him."

"Éomer!"

He silenced her with a look. "The tournament will be restarting soon," he continued, "and I would like you to stay with your nephew, Lothíriel, and I."

She glared at him, knowing fully well that he was only mentioning Elfwine so that she would be more tempted to join him. "Tun's ribs are broken," she reminded her brother. "He needs attention more than—"

"He does not need your attention," Éomer interrupted her, the expression in his eyes telling her that she would get nowhere by arguing with him. "Our healer is perfectly capable of mending him. You will be more of a hindrance than anything."

His words stung her, but she did not want to show him just how much. "Fine," she muttered irritably, and then glanced over to see Halwend putting the finishing touches on Tun's splint. The healer's hands were remarkably quick; already the guards were beginning to form around the stretcher, prepared to take the fallen warrior home. "Am I allowed to say goodbye to him?"

"Yes, you may," Éomer replied.

"You are generous, my lord," Gúthwyn said sarcastically.

Without waiting for a reaction, she walked back to where her champion lay. Smiling sadly at him, she knelt down and told him that it was her duty to be present at the tournament, but had she any choice in the matter she would have stayed with him. Tun could barely speak at this point, yet the look in his eyes was all that she needed. "Get well soon," she bade him. "May I see how you are faring later?"

The last question was also directed to Brithwen, who had every reason to not be happy about a call from the woman her husband was in love with.

"You do not… have… to go out… of your way, my lady," Tun tried to say quickly, but the effort to do so cost him much strength and his face contorted in agony.

Again, Gúthwyn shushed him. "Visiting a friend is never an inconvenience," she answered, careful to substitute "friend" for "champion," which she had been about to say before asking herself what Brithwen would have thought about that.

"Excuse me, my lady," someone spoke then, and she turned to see Ceorl crouched down beside her—obviously joining the effort to bring Tun to his house.

Furious with herself for getting in the way, especially since Éomer had just accused her of doing the same thing, Gúthwyn hastily nodded and fairly leaped to her feet. "Goodbye, Tun," she said, gazing down at him. "Thank you for representing me today."

The words seemed to stir something within him; he lifted his good wrist into the air, upon which Gúthwyn recognized her green ribbon. "Here, my lady… for… someone else…"

For a moment, Gúthwyn looked at it. At length, she shook her head. "Keep it," she replied, forgetting that Brithwen was watching, forgetting everything but the ruins of what had once been a great friendship. "You are my only champion."

And though Brithwen's eyes narrowed at this comment, the weak smile Tun gave her as he was carried away on the bier felt as radiant as if the sun itself was shining from the man she had known since childhood.


	99. Queue Rumors

**A/N:** I'm horribly sorry about the disgustingly long time it took me to update this story. I made the mistake of creating a web layout after I posted the last chapter, and that took a lot more time than I thought it would. That, in combination with the general death that is school, is the reason why I'm posting this almost three weeks after the previous chapter. I am definitely going to be working on getting these updates in more frequently, especially now that I've come to an exciting part of the story!

Thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter Ninety-Nine:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter Ninety-Nine**

"How badly hurt was your champion?" Imrahil inquired when Gúthwyn returned to the box, his face lined with concern. "Will he recover soon?"

Gúthwyn shrugged, having at the moment a very poor disposition towards anything that was connected to Dol Amroth. "He broke some of his ribs, as well as his wrist and a leg, and he dislocated his shoulder. Erkenbrand—his uncle, a Marshal—reset the shoulder, but as for the rest, he will have to spend several weeks in bed."

"I am sorry," Imrahil said, his condolences not sounding at all contrived.

Nodding, Gúthwyn made her way back to her seat, deliberately ignoring Lothíriel. She did not want to look at the queen, when her champion had just suffered directly at the hands of the other woman's.

"Gúthy!" Elfwine shouted gleefully, attempting to lunge into her arms when she sat down.

"Elfwine, _no_," Lothíriel snapped, sounding more hurt than anything. "Leave your aunt alone."

At the sound of his mother's voice, Elfwine twisted around and scowled. "Want Gúthy," he demanded. "Gúthy now!"

Gúthwyn glanced at her nephew, wishing she could hold him, but she had a feeling that the more Elfwine protested, the less inclined Lothíriel would be to hand him over. Resigning herself to the queen's temper, she gave Elfwine a small smile and returned her attentions to the arena.

Elfwine continued to howl as the tournament went on. His angry cries rang in Gúthwyn's ears all throughout the equestrian events, at which naturally the Rohirrim led the field. The only times he quieted down were when he spotted Éomer competing, at which point he would bounce so enthusiastically on Lothíriel's knees that the queen's legs were probably covered in bruises by the time her husband came over to claim his prize.

"How are you, son?" Éomer would ask whenever he did this, after he had kissed Lothíriel's proffered hand.

Perfectly content for the moment, Elfwine would coo and babble until his father walked away. He would then petition to be held by Gúthwyn, each attempt increasingly hysterical, and when Lothíriel refused to cave in he would revert to his former screaming state. At last, Lothíriel, more concerned about the opinions of those watching her than her son's desires, had his nurse Bregwyn remove him from the box and take him back to Meduseld.

Gúthwyn was saddened to see her nephew go, but as she had offered to hold him and Lothíriel had turned her down, she knew it was not her place to further interfere. In any case, her thoughts had begun to turn to the upcoming sword-fighting, and how she could possibly manage to exit the box without attracting Éomer's suspicion. When Amrothos returned and sat down unfortunately close to her, the weight of his gaze only served to add more pressure.

Obviously, it was crucial to wait until Éomer had finished competing and rejoined his family, as if he came back to find her gone—even with Amrothos missing as well, and with someone to inform him where they had disappeared to—he would grow distrustful, and probably send someone to locate her. However, she also wanted to leave well before the final contest began, so that the connection between the timing of her departure and the beginning of the games would be less obvious.

Even if she did meet these requirements, Éomer would still be unsure of whether or not to believe her. In the days after Sauron's defeat, when he had led Riders out on expeditions to destroy the last few Orc tribes, he had once gone so far as to lock her in her room the morning of the foray, simply to ensure that she did not try to sneak out and follow the men. Four years may have passed since then, but by no means would his instinctual misgivings of her docility have faded.

Thus, whatever her excuse was, it had to be strong and convincing. "I wish to go for a walk" would not suffice, as she would never risk missing the sword-fighting over such a small thing as restlessness. Her intentions would also have to necessitate an extremely long absence from the box—again, what could ever take precedence over watching the tournament?

When she saw Éomer five minutes later, Gúthwyn rose to her feet and said, "Brother, may I check on Tun? I am worried about him, he looked so awful. What if he—"

"The healer is probably still attending to him," Éomer interrupted, his eyes already narrowed. "You can see him when the tournament is over."

"Éomer, he was taken away more than half an hour ago! Surely Halwend has finished bandaging him by now."

She could practically see Éomer attempting to tell himself that he was being foolish, that if his baby sister said she was visiting her champion then that was what she would do. But time and time again this side was countered by memories of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and what had transpired because of that. Abruptly changing tact and alluding to this concern, he said, "I do not think you should be wandering around on your own."

"I will not be 'wandering around,'" Gúthwyn retorted. "I will be walking to Tun's house. There is no danger in that!"

"I would feel more comfortable if someone accompanied you," Éomer said firmly. Her opposition to the acceptance of a guardian had only served to heighten his suspicion; that was no matter, Gúthwyn thought, as she was not to be deterred by his protectiveness.

"Fine," she said, pretending she had not expected this inconvenience all along. "I will get Cob—"

Right on cue, a familiar voice volunteered, "I will do it."

Both Éomer and Gúthwyn turned around to see Amrothos getting to his feet. "I am the one responsible for the man's injuries," he spoke. "My manners would be poor indeed if I did not see how he is faring."

From the wary expression on his father's face, Amrothos had clearly never been this considerate of the rules dictated by propriety. Éomer also was surprised, and more than a little unwilling. He glanced back and forth between Gúthwyn and the prince, his brow furrowed in distrust. Luckily, none of it was now directed towards his sister.

"You do not need to trouble yourself," Éomer assured his guest, and Gúthwyn felt a twinge of guilt as she realized that her brother was trying to respect her uneasiness around Amrothos and spare her his presence.

"Nonsense," Amrothos replied, waving his hand. "I had been intending to seek him out, anyway."

Éomer cast an apologetic glance at Gúthwyn, allowing her every opportunity to protest, or perhaps insist that Tun only be allowed a couple of visitors at a time and that Cobryn was a much more qualified candidate for the position. Gúthwyn shrugged her shoulders in a way that suggested she had no more power than he to deter Amrothos, and said, "Let us go."

Éomer sighed, not at all happy with the arrangements but having no choice other than to give his consent. "Be careful," he warned, "and do not tarry."

"I will not," Gúthwyn promised—_if an hour-long visit is not considered tarrying,_ she thought to herself—and waited until Amrothos had come up beside her before leaving the box.

They walked in silence down the stairs, but when they were safely out of Éomer's earshot Gúthwyn inquired, "Where exactly did you put my sword?" She was hoping that he could give her the location and she would find it herself, rather than have to endure more of his insolence.

Unfortunately, such a happy course of action was not to occur. "Behind the stands," was Amrothos's vague response, and as he took her by the arm it was clear that he purposed to lead her there. "I covered it and the armor with my cloak."

Gúthwyn grimaced as she pulled out of the prince's grasp, imagining the essence of Amrothos befouling Framwine.

Their going was slow afterwards, for Gúthwyn was familiar with all of the Rohirric spectators and many of them shouted greetings to her as she went by. They were less friendly to Amrothos: several of them frowned at him, and a few of the bolder ones surveyed his passing with outright glares.

"I seem to be quite unpopular amongst the peasants," Amrothos snorted contemptuously the third time this happened.

"Yes," Gúthwyn acknowledged acidly, infuriated to hear him referring to her people in such a derogatory manner, "that is what tends to happen when you are a leeching guest whose only thanks come in the form of injury to one of your hosts!"

"Touchy, touchy," Amrothos observed with a smirk. "Perhaps your champion should learn to be a better jouster and stay on his horse next time."

Gúthwyn whirled around. "Perhaps you should learn to shut your mouth," she snarled, "and refrain from insulting my champion."

She glared at him until he raised his hands in mock surrender, narrowed her eyes even further at the gesture, and then turned her head in the opposite direction so that she would not have to look at him.

"No, no, enough of that," Amrothos said as she made to exchange news with Wífled. Slipping his arm around her waist and guiding her back to him, he added, "The contest will be starting soon."

"Let go of me!" Gúthwyn cried, wrenching away. "Stop it!"

"Stop what?" Amrothos queried, raising his eyebrows.

"Stop touching me!" she hissed.

"So, the other men you consort with are allowed to lay their hands on you, but I am not?"

The nerve of him! "They are my friends," Gúthwyn pointed out as they left the arena and emerged onto the plains, putting a rather large emphasis on the last word.

"You wound me," Amrothos replied, rolling his eyes. "I daresay the children's father was just a friend, as well?"

Gúthwyn abruptly stopped, closed her eyes, counted very quickly to ten, and said tightly, "I am _not_ Hammel and Haiweth's mother. I saw their father but minutes before he was killed."

"A few minutes is all it takes," Amrothos replied, grinning.

Something inside of Gúthwyn snapped. Lunging forward, she grabbed two fistfuls of the horrible man's tunic and yanked him towards her. "Not another word!" she screamed into his shocked face. "Stop it! I hate you! How dare you call me a whore, as if you are any better than one? If you _ever_ say something like that again, I swear I will kill you! _Do you understand me?_"

When for a moment he did not respond, and the distant sounds of the tournament were the only noises around them, she shook him as hard as she could and shouted, "_Do you understand me, you bastard?_"

"Yes," Amrothos finally said, pale and stunned when she let go of him. For the first time in her recollection, he did not have a retort at the ready. "W-What—"

"Just show me where my things are," Gúthwyn snapped, shaking with hatred and humiliation. It was good that no one in the far-off crowd had heard her; they would have thought her insane.

For once, Amrothos obeyed her, and they did not speak at all until he had led her around the arena. There she marked, behind one of the stands, a lump of fabric that at first glance she thought someone had dropped and forgotten. Then she realized that this was Amrothos's cloak, and that her sword, pack, and armor were beneath it.

Happy was her reunion with Framwine, all the more so because soon she would be wielding him. Setting the blade carefully to the side, she picked up the armor and examined it. Then, remembering Amrothos, she looked over her shoulder and saw him watching her with narrowed eyes.

"Turn around," she ordered, crossing her arms. Though she was wearing leggings and a long-sleeved tunic beneath her dress, she did not want to risk her shirt lifting up while she pulled the other garment off. Not only would she chance exposing herself, but he might see the terrible scars adorning her back.

For the second time, Amrothos surprised her by adhering to her wishes. Gúthwyn made sure that he could not see her and then removed her dress, adjusting the tunic below it. After casting aside the cumbersome gown, she shifted her attentions to the armor Amrothos had provided for her. It was the smallest he could get his hands on, and even then it was still too big.

There was a pair of wrist guards that she gratefully pulled on. She always wore something to cover those areas, as her people were unaware that their lady bore the mark of a slave and she had no desire to suggest otherwise. Slipping the guards on without looking at the Eye of Sauron, she then reached for the helmet and checked it over—it had to be able to conceal her locks, as if it became known that a dark-haired warrior was competing for the Rohirrim her guise would not last for another second.

She left the greaves where they were, knowing that the extra weight would slow her movements and make her far more susceptible to defeat. Given that she was smaller than all of the other warriors, her advantage lay in speed and it would have been foolish to sacrifice her agility for protection, especially when no one would actually be trying to hurt her (or so she assumed).

Another article of little use to her was a breastplate, which she suspected Amrothos had obtained to hide her curves. Since she had none to speak of, she had opted for binding her breasts, knowing she would not have to tie very tightly. The cloth in question had been placed in her dress pocket; withdrawing it, she glanced at Amrothos once more and then reached under her shirt, quickly doing the knot and admiring the result. With hardly any effort at all, she had completely flattened her chest. Most women would have been appalled with such a figure, but it suited Gúthwyn perfectly—it was even less of an excuse for men to think about her in unwanted lights.

Finally, there was the crucial piece of her masquerade: a helmet. After tying her hair back, Gúthwyn picked up the one Amrothos had provided for her and put it on with bated breath. Miraculously, she could still see reasonably well, though a small plate was covering her nose and the bottom of the helmet extended towards the tip of her chin. When she withdrew Framwine to look at her reflection, she was immensely relieved to discover that none of her facial features were visible, apart from her eyes. Considering blue was a very common color amongst the Rohirrim, Gúthwyn knew that this was not a concern.

"Done," she announced, stuffing her dress in her pack and hiding it once more under Amrothos's cloak. The prince turned around, still wary after her enraged outburst.

"Good," was all he said, surveying her handiwork. "Now, hurry, we do not have much time. You still have to get a token."

"A token?" Gúthwyn asked, falling into place beside him as they began walking towards the arena's entrance.

"You will get nowhere with a voice like that," Amrothos replied dismissively. "Try again."

"A token?" Gúthwyn repeated, her tone considerably deeper.

"Perhaps you should not speak at all," Amrothos decided, and finally answered her question. "Yes, a token. Those who are competing take a stone that has a symbol painted on it. There are two of each kind, which determines who will be matched against who in the first round. From there on, the symbols—and the warriors—are paired together at random."

"Is Elphir going to fight?" Gúthwyn inquired before she could stop herself.

"He may very well decide to do something other than stare at you, yes."

"Did you ever ask him why he ended the negotiations?" Gúthwyn shot back. "I seem to recall you promising to find an explanation, yet here we are weeks later and you have none."

"_Voice,_ and for once you are right, I have none. My dear brother has decided that I am no longer trustworthy, and would no sooner tell me why you are worthless in his eyes than he would you. Charming, our relationship is, no?"

Gúthwyn exhaled in annoyance. "Fine," she muttered.

Amrothos fixed her with a look. "Do I have to gag you?"

"_Fine,_" she said again, imitating a man's voice. "Is that better?"

"It will do," Amrothos said, heaving a long-suffering sigh. "You go on without me," he added when they came within several yards of the gates. "It will not do to have the peasants wondering why I left with a woman and returned with a man, especially when that woman was a lady."

"They are not peasants," Gúthwyn snapped. "They are my people."

"Actually," Amrothos responded, "last I checked, they were my sister's, not yours. You are not their queen—or have things changed since Lothíriel was crowned?"

Gúthwyn resisted the temptation to spit in his face. "If Lothíriel wants subjects, she should treat them with the respect they deserve, not as though they are unfit to lick the dirt from the hems of her precious gowns."

"And I suppose you think that they all love you?" Amrothos asked. "Even when half of them suspect you to be a whore, and the other half are the ones who are paying for your services? You must sell yourself at quite a low price, I daresay none of them could afford…" Then he paused and, oblivious to her slowly reddening face, said with mock horror, "Or do you give yourself away for free? Do not tell me your brother uses you as a reward for his captains… That is _dreadfully_ barbaric…"

She should have known that he only sought to infuriate her, that he did not believe any of those outrageous stories, that his sole purpose was to punish her for insulting his sister. But Gúthwyn's mind had clouded with images of Haldor forcing himself on her, his nails digging into her arms and his eyes boring holes into her own. She saw Lumren pushing her against the rocks, thrusting his hands inside her shirt and eventually working his way down to her pants. All the while, Dîrbenn's accusations of _whore_ echoed in her ears, making it impossible for her to think straight.

The sunlight glittered on Framwine as Gúthwyn pulled her sword from its sheath, resting the tip right on Amrothos's throat. "If I were you," she said coldly, "I would ensure that you are not the champion of your pathetic little kingdom, for if we meet each other on the field I swear I will kill you. And when you die, it shall be considered a tragic accident, the demise of an arrogant prince who overextended his reach and dared to challenge the honor of the House of Eorl."

Her tone was such that even the bravest of men would have quailed, but as one of the more foolish, Amrothos merely chuckled. "You are going to commit murder, Gúthwyn?" he breathed, a strange light in his eyes. "You are going to slay Prince Imrahil's son? Elfwine's uncle?"

"Elfwine should be embarrassed to call you his uncle," Gúthwyn retorted, meeting the prince's gaze angrily. "He hates you, the one time you tried to hold him he screamed and cried for Lothíriel. I doubt he would consider your death a loss."

"But my father would," Amrothos murmured, not once looking at Framwine, "and you would never dare disappoint him, would you? Sometimes I think that you care more for his opinion than you do for your own brother's… then again, you already have Éomer wrapped around your little finger, do you not?"

"I am warning you," Gúthwyn hissed, "one more word—"

"You will not kill me," Amrothos cut her off smoothly. He sidestepped Framwine and Éomund's daughter did not move the blade an inch, despite every part of her body screaming for her to do so. Not even when Amrothos drew closer to her could she muster the desire to harm him, loathe him though she did. "You will not kill me," the prince repeated, and all of a sudden Gúthwyn felt the cold edge of a knife pressed against her stomach.

She had never feared and hated Amrothos as much as she did that instant. "I shall not tell your brother about this incident," the prince continued as casually as if they were having tea, "but if you threaten me again you may very well find that the story accidentally slips out of my mouth. Do you understand?"

Powerless to wield Framwine when she was being held at knifepoint, Gúthwyn could only nod.

"Excellent," Amrothos said. "Lower your sword, and put it back in its sheathe."

She did as he told her, the entire time conscious of his dagger. After she was done, Amrothos pulled the knife away from her side, the triumphant look in his eyes more than she could bear.

"Now," he spoke briskly, "as I was telling you before you rudely interrupted me, you will enter the arena before I do. You were lucky that none of the peasants saw us—"

"They are not peasants!" Gúthwyn cried, nothing short of positively enraged.

"I could care less what they are," Amrothos replied. "Are you—"

Just then, a loud horn blew from inside the arena, followed by the immediate sound of scrambling in the stands.

"Go!" Amrothos shouted at her over the noise. "That was the signal for the warriors to get a symbol!"

Starting, Gúthwyn raced towards the entrance, needing no excuse to put as much distance between herself and Amrothos as possible. Yet she did not have time to dwell on their recent interaction: being surrounded once more by a cheering crowd reminded her that she was in disguise, and that she would have to fool her people in order to simply get through to the token booth.

Luckily, a long search was not required to find it. Inside the ring and off to one side, a long line of men had formed. Gúthwyn bent her head and walked determinedly towards them, looking neither left nor right. Unlike her departure from the stands, her return was not marked with cries of "Lady Gúthwyn!" Indeed, few of the spectators even glanced at her.

Hardly daring to believe that she was getting away with this, Gúthwyn quickened her steps and passed into the ring, hoping that the same results would befall her stay in the queue. This, after all, was full of men whom she had trained with on a daily basis for years, men who were more likely to recognize her mannerisms. However, her good fortune prevailed, and she found herself slipping in behind two nobles from Dol Amroth.

"I will be happy to simply leave this place," one of them muttered to the other. He held a blue ribbon; his companion did not.

"Aye," the friend agreed, nodding vigorously and apparently not noticing Gúthwyn. "I have never had worse lodgings in my entire life! What sort of a king would have his guests stay in tents?"

"They barely have enough room for the servants in their hall," the first snorted. It took a moment, but Gúthwyn finally placed the voice: Lord Tulkadan.

"Perhaps if they had less bastards running around, they might have more space," the second said. "How many children does the sister have? Three?"

"Two, though there could very well be others that we have not heard about," Tulkadan replied darkly. The line moved forward, yet Gúthwyn almost forgot to follow it in her fury.

"No hint of who the father might be?"

Tulkadan shook his head. "Lady Aewen—a friend of my wife's—witnessed a confession from the sister saying that she was not with him for very long, and that she could not even recall his name!"

"I heard that," the friend responded, every syllable fringed with distaste, "but I thought it only a rumor until now… how long can the king tolerate such a disgrace? He shares his home with a slut—"

"Which one, his wife, or his sister?" Tulkadan interrupted.

There was a long pause, in which the queue shuffled forward some more and Gúthwyn knitted her brows, wondering what Lord Tulkadan was insinuating about Lothíriel.

"Now, now, Tulkadan," his friend began, sounding uncomfortable, "that was a long time ago, and if Imrahil ever got wind that you were still—"

"Speaking the truth?" Tulkadan cut him off again, though his voice was noticeably lower and Gúthwyn had to strain to hear it. "You know as well as I do that his daughter should have been banished from court years ago, along with that whoreson who was her tutor."

"Yes, but Imrahil believes in second chances... and the tutor was—"

"Not for me," a surly Tulkadan pointed out.

"I told you, you should have left court when Lothíriel started gaining power," his companion murmured. They were both whispering by now; Gúthwyn inched closer, eager to hear more and yet also confused. When had the queen ever been implicated in anything less than honorable? Who was this tutor that Lord Tulkadan spoke of?

"I—"

"She hated your wife! Was that not enough of a warning to you?"

"Quiet, one of them is behind us," Tulkadan hissed. Gúthwyn barely had time to step back and pretend to study Framwine intently before his friend turned around and gave her a once-over.

"You, boy, do you speak Westron?" the man asked. Gúthwyn looked up at the sound of his voice and stared blankly at him, acting as though she had no idea what he had just inquired.

"Do you speak Westron?" Lord Tulkadan repeated.

At that moment, Elfhelm, who was standing nearby but not close enough to have overheard the hushed conversation between Tulkadan and his friend, turned and said irritably, "Obviously he does not, otherwise he would have answered you. Is there something you need?"

Then he looked at Gúthwyn and muttered in Rohirric, "A good beating, perhaps?"

Gúthwyn snorted, and in the aftermath of her mirth hoped that the sound had been masculine enough.

"No, there is not," Lord Tulkadan replied testily, exchanging a glance with his friend. The two of them faced the front of the line again, completely ignoring Gúthwyn and Elfhelm.

"Pay no attention to them, lad," Elfhelm said kindly, clapping Gúthwyn on the shoulder. She jumped, not having expected the contact. "Is this your first tournament?"

Gúthwyn nodded; she did not trust herself to speak.

"Good luck, then," Elfhelm bade her, his eyes holding hers. "Let me know if any of the men give you trouble."

Again, Gúthwyn nodded, and turned around so that she would not have to meet the Marshal's gaze. He had known her ever since she was born—she was surprised he had not realized it was her right away. Her heart was pounding, something she had not acknowledged until she was staring at the backs of Lord Tulkadan and his friend.

Why would Lord Tulkadan have called Lothíriel a slut? The queen was more rigid in her affections than anyone Gúthwyn had ever met; she blushed furiously whenever Éomer kissed her in public, and not once had she cooed to Elfwine. Obviously she had been a virgin when Éomer married her, or the maids would have told everyone that there was no blood on the sheets the morning after the wedding. Gúthwyn brushed aside the thoughts that the same was not true for herself.

So how could Lothíriel be deemed a whore by those in her own social circle? Even the nobles of Dol Amroth were not that foolish. Gúthwyn was not sure why Lord Tulkadan had referred to a tutor, but she highly doubted that Lothíriel—who followed the rules of propriety so strictly that she had likely written them herself—could ever have had an affair with the man, which was what Lord Tulkadan appeared to be suggesting.

"Here you are, lad."

Gúthwyn started and looked up. She had been so absorbed in her musings that she had come all the way to the front of the line without noticing her progress. Just in time, she extended her hand to accept the stone, upon which had been painted a white horse. She smiled at this, then glanced at the others. Most of the sets had been broken, but she saw an eagle, a swan, a wolf, and what she thought must have been an Ent.

Nodding mutely at Anborn, the man who had given her her token, Gúthwyn slipped out of the queue. In her absence, the arena had been transformed. Temporary fences divided the field into thirty-two sections, each of which served as the boundaries for a sparring match. As the contest went along, portions of the fence would be removed, so that the remaining participants would have more room to fight.

Wondering where to go next, she surveyed the scene before her and observed that the men of Rohan had been given a pavilion to her left, while the nobles of Dol Amroth were relaxing under a great canopy to her right. Walking towards the other Eorlingas, not daring to sneak a glance in the direction of the royal family, Gúthwyn entered the pavilion and sat down in a corner.

To her surprise, she was unable to ascertain the identities of as many men as she had thought she would. Everyone, herself included, was wearing the same helmet, which succeeded in obscuring all of their facial features except for their eyes and their mouths. After close examination, she was able to pick out Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, and Gamling, namely because of their statures and the way they walked. No one was speaking; obviously, they did not wish to reveal themselves.

The others she imagined were guards, though now and then there was the odd small figure she guessed to be a youth hoping to test their skills with the comfort of anonymity. Praying that those around her believed her to be one of this number, Gúthwyn thanked the Valar for her decision to keep Framwine's sheathe largely unadorned. Her sword's design was unique, but not so much that one would be able to pick it out from a distance. She did not expect Éomer to.

As she waited for the games to begin, her mind turned back to Amrothos. She shuddered, recalling how he had so easily put a knife to her stomach, how he had done it without any sign of fear or reluctance to continue pressing the dagger into her flesh. He had not even been afraid Framwine—it was as though he knew he held power over her, and that she would never have the courage to kill him.

_He does _not_ hold power over you, and you were _not _being cowardly, you were just being reasonable,_ Gúthwyn told herself. _He would not have slain you, either; you were a fool to be frightened of him, he was only using his dagger so that you would lower Framwine!_

One thing was for sure, however: she never wanted to speak to Amrothos again for as long as she lived. He was insolent beyond reason, and he was wholly convinced that she had given birth to Hammel and Haiweth. She had felt sick when he mocked her about letting the men of the army use her, and even now she was still queasy about the idea.

_How can he believe such horrible things?_ she asked herself. _When have I ever given evidence that I am as he says? Surely holding hands with Cobryn was not so grave an offense?_

Cobryn had warned her that the incident might be more serious than she presumed it to be, but she could never have foreseen that it would come back to haunt her like this. It was hard to conceive that the Dol Amroth delegation would be so catty as to make a scandal out of the innocent gesture. _She_ had never intended for it to be viewed as romantic, and it quite clearly was not, so why were they making such a fuss about it?

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

The booming cry of the herald frightened her so much that she nearly toppled out of her seat in shock, earning herself a few sympathetic looks from the men. They must have assumed that she was nervous about the upcoming competition.

"Welcome to the final part of today's tournament!"

Ear-splitting cheers broke out amongst the spectators, and Gúthwyn felt herself grinning along with them. Whatever the concerns she had today, they were all receding into the background. All that mattered now was her sword and her opponent.

"As you may have noticed, our men have hidden their faces, so that their identities are kept secret from the crowd!" the herald continued. "Only the final two participants shall be revealed at the end, so there is no shame in losing! Competitors are asked not to return to their families until the last round is over, so that it will be more of a challenge to guess who is fighting."

More applause filled the arena—evidently, everyone was anticipating the endless amusement of trying to figure out who was who.

"Warriors, take your places!"

_Come, Framwine,_ Gúthwyn thought, getting to her feet. _Let us show the nobles of Dol Amroth what the women of Rohan are capable of doing!_

Smiling to know that she would soon be wielding her sword, Éomund's daughter took a deep breath and stepped out onto the field.


	100. The Reveal

**A/N:** I just wanted to make note of the fact that this story has reached three hundred reviews! Thank you, everyone, for being awesome and taking the time to not only read, but to let me know your thoughts about the latest chapter!

Just as a reminder, I am very open to constructive criticism. I would put a smiley face here, but this site seems to have banned them...?

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred**

Above each fenced-off section of the field, a sign bearing the symbol of an animal announced where the competitors were to go. Gúthwyn searched for a horse and found it in a location mercifully far away from the royal box. Thanking the Valar for this grace, she hurried over to meet her first opponent. He must have been relatively young, and clearly nervous; she suspected that Anborn had taken note of the statures of those collecting tokens and attempted to assign them to someone of the same size.

"Good luck," she said gruffly to the man in front of her, trying to disguise her voice.

"You, too," she heard, and knew at once that it was Hunwald, a Rider who had won an archery contest earlier that day. His strength lay in the bow, and not in the sword. All the same, she was not about to lower her guard, in case something unforeseen happened. Losing the very first round would do her no good.

"Bow, and begin!"

At the herald's call, Gúthwyn and Hunwald inclined their heads towards each other and lifted their swords. They began circling, eyeing their opponent's armor in hopes of finding a weak spot. In order to win, Gúthwyn would have to force the man before her to yield, at which point she would hold her sword in the air to signal victory.

It was not long before Hunwald lunged at her. Gúthwyn parried the blow easily and then launched into a series of attacks, each designed to push the Rider backwards. They could not go far, but it was a lot more difficult to fight from a corner than it was to do so out in the open. Hunwald was not a strong fighter; she found herself advancing without much trouble. When he was pressed against the fence, she succeeded in getting under his guard after a minute of furious dueling and placed Framwine at his throat.

"Yield," Hunwald groaned, disappointment etched across his features. Gúthwyn nodded and held up her sword, angling it so that it would appear as a mere slit if one were watching from the royal box. All around her, other men were waving their blades in triumph, so she was not alone.

"Good match," Gúthwyn muttered, her voice as low as she could manage without sounding ridiculous. "Hold your ground next time, and you will do better."

"Thank you," Hunwald sighed, and they bowed once more. They then returned to the pavilion, where Hunwald sat amongst soldiers who looked as though they had all lost their matches, and Gúthwyn assumed her isolated spot towards the back.

One by one, the men filed in, half with a slump to their shoulders and half with a bounce in their step. Across the field, the Dol Amroth delegation was doing the same, their ranks divided between those who would pass onto the next round and those who could not. There was talking now, since many no longer had to worry about accidentally revealing themselves, but Gúthwyn watched the proceedings in silence. She sorely hoped that Lord Tulkadan was not one of the quiet nobles.

The contest went on. Slowly, parts of the fence disappeared to accommodate the dwindling number of participants. Gúthwyn soon realized that she had forgotten what it meant to be constantly fighting, that in her absence from Mordor much of her endurance had faded. Had she escaped the Dark Land recently, she would barely have broken a sweat as the half-hour mark was reached, but now her breathing was coming heavily and tiny droplets were running down her face. The hot confines of her helmet did not help, either.

_You can do this,_ she told herself, stretching her aching arms. _Just imagine how the Dol Amroth nobles will be quelled if they see that a woman can beat their finest warrior!_

"Warriors, take your places!"

Each time the herald called her and the others to resume fighting, her self-doubts were abandoned in favor of the subsequent adrenaline rush. Slowly but surely she overcame the men she had trained with for years, her energy feeding from their fatigue and her movements growing faster as theirs became slower. Her almost perverse delight in wielding a sword gave her the strength to go on, and allowed her to ignore her ankle when it started to bother her. It was only a small stab of pain, once every couple of minutes or so—she brushed it off, forgetting about the occurrence as soon as it had passed.

Much to her disappointment, she discovered that her friends, those who claimed to hold nothing back while sparring with her on the training grounds, had in fact been reserving their strength. Again and again she was saddened by how their skills improved when they thought her to be a man, the techniques they employed against Lady Gúthwyn mere shadows in comparison. She had been training with mockeries of partners, warriors who were too afraid of hurting her to expend their full might.

Perhaps she should have known that this would be the case. Had she not lost far more often to the slaves in Mordor, better-fed and well-rested though the Eorlingas were? Had she not sustained frequent injuries in the Dark Land, while receiving none in the Mark? Her Rohirric companions were not coddling her by any stretch, but there was a painful difference between the way they fought when she was the sister of their king and when she was an unimportant young man testing the waters of his strength.

At long last, she had one man of Rohan left to face: Elfhelm. Gúthwyn had watched his defeat of Gamling and recognized him easily. He was, after all, one of the few soldiers who could best the captain, and she knew for a fact that Erkenbrand had been beaten in the previous round. When the herald shouted for them to return to the field, Gúthwyn glanced at the Marshal and walked out into the arena, where one small sign announced that the man bearing the horse token was to spar with he who held the raven. The other symbols had retired, their owners having returned them upon losing.

"Well done, lad," Elfhelm said, his eyes narrowing as though trying to figure out whether she had won her way here by luck or if it was truly by skill. "I thought you said this was your first tournament?"

Gúthwyn chuckled, but did not dare answer him further and instead looked towards the final pair of Dol Amroth warriors. One of them had walked out with an unmistakable swagger; he was undoubtedly Amrothos, and she could not help but wonder if he was now squaring off against his brother. The second warrior did not move a muscle under her examination—she could almost see the tension radiating from him.

"Bow, and begin!"

As the cheering in the crowd increased tenfold, Gúthwyn and Elfhelm performed the courtesies and then set about circling each other. Knowing that the Marshal expected her to make the first move, she decided not to disappoint him: leaping forwards, she feinted towards his left and cut quickly to his right as soon as he raised his sword, aiming at his shoulder before he could register the change.

Swift though the maneuver was, Elfhelm was faster. Upon realizing what she had done, he blocked the attack effortlessly and responded with one of his own, throwing them headfirst into a fierce exchange of strikes. Pushed back and pressing ahead in equal measures, Gúthwyn met every blow from the Marshal and dealt several in her turn. The sweat on her face was no longer a steady trickle. It was all but a downpour, running down to her shirt and making her grateful for even the smallest of breezes.

Had Éomund's daughter glanced at the two men from Dol Amroth, however, she would have realized her match to seem like child's play in comparison. While she and the Marshal were busy jabbing and parrying, the attention of the Eorlingas was slowly beginning to shift from their two prospective champions to the nobles. Those in the crowd marveled at how fierce their fighting was, and then gasped as one of them drew blood from the other. In the royal box Imrahil frowned, his concern shared by not a few.

Gúthwyn saw none of this, instead concentrating on besting Elfhelm. Back and forth they went, neither seeming to gain the upper hand. With the other warriors, she had had the advantage of knowing all their weaknesses, while they had attempted to discern hers, unaware that a recollection of Lady Gúthwyn on the training grounds would have done the trick. Unfortunately for her, she did not have an edge over the man who made very few mistakes, and he was obviously just as stumped as she was.

Finally, in what Gúthwyn could only describe as a stroke of pure luck, the Marshal fell for an old feint that she had learned by watching the Easterlings in Mordor. She had remembered the move a few weeks ago after espying one of their flags in a painting of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and had not been able to use it until now. It proved to be successful, as Elfhelm, thinking that she was aiming for his head, raised his sword to protect himself only to watch as her wrists flicked in an entirely different direction. Before he could correct his mistake, her sword was at his throat, and she had moved to the side so that even if he brought his own blade downwards, he would not be able to hit her without adjusting his stance.

"I suppose I have to yield?" Elfhelm asked, grinning at the simple trick that had fooled him.

Gúthwyn nodded. "Do you?" she returned.

An odd expression came over his face. "Yes, I do," he replied.

Smiling, Gúthwyn raised Framwine into the air, signaling her victory. Although none of the Eorlingas knew who they were cheering for, the applause was still deafening.

"I thought you did not understand Common Tongue," Elfhelm said then, looking at her piercingly. A sinking sensation came over her as Gúthwyn realized that she had just been addressed and responded in Westron without a second thought. Slowly she lowered Framwine, wondering how she could possibly begin to explain why a young Rohirric lad would have any interest in learning the Common Tongue.

"I—"

"Gúthwyn, is that you?" Elfhelm asked incredulously, reaching out and grabbing her by the arm to prevent her from escaping. As he spoke, a roar echoed throughout the arena, indicating that the champion of Dol Amroth had been decided. Éomund's daughter did not notice the loser limping away, his hand clamped over his nose to stem the tide of blood spurting down his face.

"Not in front of Éomer!" she hissed. Why bother maintaining the charade? Elfhelm's eyes were darting back and forth between her and Framwine, obviously recognizing the sword. It was useless to deny anything, and she could not afford to waste time trying when sooner or later the king would glance over at them, wondering what sort of a conversation his two Riders could be having.

"By the Valar, Gúthwyn!" Elfhelm swore under his breath, then put more pressure on her arm so that she was forced to start walking towards the tent. "How on Middle-earth did you—what were you thinking?"

"You and the others hold back on the training grounds when we fight together," was all she could say. "You lied to me."

Elfhelm looked as though he had developed a sudden head cold. "You risked Éomer's wrath just to find out whether or not we let you win sparring matches?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn muttered, stung that he had not at least attempted to deny her accusation.

"Do you have any idea how angry Éomer will be when he discovers that you are here?" Elfhelm demanded as they neared the pavilion. "He has already banned you from the training grounds!"

"I do not see what else he could possibly ban me from," Gúthwyn growled.

"I cannot believe you are here," Elfhelm breathed in shock. "Gúthwyn, the man who is Dol Amroth's champion—I have watched him, he has injured every single one of his opponents! He fights as though he is possessed—"

"Perhaps it is a woman," Gúthwyn smirked, and then winced as Elfhelm tightened his hold on her.

"This is not a laughing matter! You could be seriously hurt, I have half a mind to tell your brother!"

"Why?" Gúthwyn asked, her face paling. "You cannot call off the match, that would be rolling over and letting Dol Amroth win! You want to see them humiliated just as much as I do!"

"Not at the expense of your life!" Elfhelm barked. A couple of the soldiers glanced over at them; lowering his voice, he continued, "You did not happen to look at the last man their champion fought against, did you? He could barely walk, he was bleeding—"

"I am not going to get myself killed," Gúthwyn said coldly, her tone making it clear that this argument would progress no further. "I am not so fragile that a few cuts will finish me, Marshal, I have dealt and received far worse wounds than have befallen the competitors in this tournament. If you wish to tell my brother, then I cannot stop you, but I would rather have the chance to face this noble before I am disgraced."

Elfhelm surveyed her for a long moment. "I thought it was you," he murmured, "when you understood what I said about Lord Tulkadan needing a beating, though had you been unable to comprehend what I asked him earlier you would not have known the context."

Gúthwyn let out a sigh of relief. He was not going to tell Éomer. "You were aware of me then," she asked, "and yet you did not speak of my presence to anyone?"

"I was hoping that Erkenbrand, Gamling, or I might have defeated you… although," he finished unabashedly, "part of me wanted to see you go on to triumph over the champion of Dol Amroth."

Gúthwyn grinned. "With any luck," she replied, "I will. Thank you, my friend."

Elfhelm smiled, and then placed a hand on her shoulder. "Be careful," he told her. "I am serious; this man, whoever he is, has been responsible for all of the blood you see on the ground. I do not want to be the person who let my king's sister suffer."

"Forgive me, but I am not quite sure what you mean by that," Gúthwyn replied, arranging her features into a quizzical expression. "I am Dernhelm, a man of eighteen winters. Lady Gúthwyn is visiting a fallen soldier."

"Your sister used that name," Elfhelm said with a laugh. "By the Valar, I wish the women of Dol Amroth were half of what you two are. All right, then, Dernhelm—good luck!"

"Thank you, my lord," Gúthwyn answered with a bow.

"Warriors, take your places!"

Éomund's daughter heard an enthusiastic round of congratulations from all corners of the tent, as well as the occasional muttered, "I hope you kill that whoreson." Nodding her head in acknowledgment, she strode out into the arena. The last of the fence had gone, leaving a wide open space for her and the man of Dol Amroth to duel.

The noise of the crowd was deafening as she approached the noble. Her shoulders were square, her chin raised in defiance: she knew Éomer would be furious with her when she was revealed, if he had not figured it out by now, yet that was no longer important. All that mattered was showing the delegation of Dol Amroth that the women of Rohan were just as capable of great feats as the men.

_Would that I were a peasant,_ she thought savagely. _Then they would know even greater shame._

That was when she looked directly into the eyes of her opponent.

_Elphir!_ she realized in horror. It could be no one else. She had seen that face in her dreams, had puzzled over what lay behind it for months now. For a terrible moment, she imagined that he, too, had seen beyond the helmet she wore—for the briefest instant, it was as though the ruins of their relationship were exposed for all to gaze upon, the mess of their courtship befouling the very air.

Yet as quickly as it had come, the sensation was gone, replaced by a cold, sinking feeling in her stomach.

"Bow, and begin!"

Gúthwyn and her former betrothed bowed to each other in a suddenly silent arena. Éomund's daughter then lifted her sword, but before she had a chance to raise her guard Elphir had lunged at her, nearly knocking her off-balance with a powerful strike. Gúthwyn lost ground almost immediately, giving way to an onslaught of the fastest blows she had ever seen Elphir deal. Barely managing to ward them off in time, she tried to concentrate on bringing herself back to the offensive side of the match, yet as time went on she found this goal near impossible to achieve. Elphir was fighting as though his life depended on the duel's outcome, as though he had everything to lose.

At last, Gúthwyn decided to revert to a tactic that she never liked to use, but one that Borogor had taught her to employ whenever injured or otherwise incapable of meeting her enemy. Its purpose was to tire out her adversary, until their own attacks became sluggish and she could then take the upper hand. As Elphir raised his sword, she darted to the side, forcing him to turn around and lose all of his power. For the next five minutes, she continued to avoid him in that manner, trying to gain some space to muster an assault of her own.

"Coward!" Elphir spat at one point, having been made to lunge forward when she leapt out of his range. "Fight me!"

Gúthwyn could not answer him, she was breathing so hard. She had never known Elphir to fight like this. For the first time since the start of the contest, she began fearing that she might lose.

_Think!_ she told herself. _There must be some way that you can achieve an advantage over him!_

"How will your family feel when they learn you spent our entire match running from me?" Elphir demanded after she sidestepped another jab, his voice almost demonic with rage.

"They might be ashamed," Gúthwyn finally responded, her speech low, "but my lady shall still welcome me to her bed… you are familiar with the king's sister, no?"

Her words had the exact effect she had been hoping for. With a wild cry of hatred, Elphir put forth even more energy into his blows, but this time they were sloppy, made erratic by his fury. Gúthwyn could soon see mistakes in his technique, ones that she acted upon immediately. Slowly but surely, she began pushing Elphir back, using his own anger against him.

As the space between Elphir and the end of the arena steadily closed, Gúthwyn felt a familiar surge of delight, the result of having Framwine with her and being able to defeat her opponent. Her strikes became harder, faster, and more powerful, feeding off of the prince's ire. There was a great deal of shouting in the background but she ignored it, her only objective to force Elphir to yield to her.

She narrowed the gap between them; they were now fighting in close quarters, the potential for mistakes—in the form of dreadful injury—higher, but the skill required to navigate these waters far more demanding. Elphir's expression was now desperate, for they knew he did have the focus to continue this type of combat much longer. His emotions were getting the best of him, preventing him from utilizing his full might.

Gúthwyn was certain of her triumph when something happened that she failed to see coming, something that she was never sure how it managed to occur. One minute, she was looking into Elphir's eyes, debating whether or not to divulge another tidbit of incriminating information concerning Lady Gúthwyn; the next, the pommel of Elphir's sword slammed into the side of her head, creating a small explosion of pain where it had struck.

She lost her balance and fell to the ground, twisting as she did so. The landing was hard and she rolled over, clutching her head with one hand and trying to break the impact with her other. Roars of disapproval echoed in her ears, but as far as she could tell Elphir had done nothing illegal—the hilt was still part of the sword. Struggling to get to her feet, she saw the prince holding back, despite his anger seemingly reluctant to strike her while she was down.

Something wet slurped in her mouth and she spat out blood, watching as it stained the dirt a dark crimson color. Wiping her lips on her sleeve, she got to her knees and then stood. Almost instantaneously, a sharp agony raced through her ankle, causing her to cry out and stumble. She had barely managed to shift her weight to her left foot when her right gave out beneath her, unable to support itself through the pain.

Elphir thought her staggering only due to clumsiness on her part, and she did not have the chance to look at her ankle before he attacked her again. Every movement hurt more than the last; she gasped with each strike and tripped with nearly indecent frequency, the throbbing unbearable. She did not think she had broken any bones, but at the very least she would have a sprain to treat.

Gritting her teeth, she ordered herself, _Forget about your ankle! Win this fight, and then it will be over!_

Ignoring the blinding pain, or, rather, making a valiant attempt to, Gúthwyn leaped towards her former betrothed and swung her sword in the direction of his neck. She succeeded in putting him on the defensive side for a few precious minutes, but he caught her by surprise when the flat side of his blade struck her helmet, knocking her head to the left. Real fear surged through her: had his weapon been angled even slightly, her poor-quality armor might not have protected her.

Éomund's daughter did not notice that a strand of her hair had come undone and slipped down to her shoulders, and nor did anyone in the audience, but Elphir did. Gúthwyn was confused when he made his grip one-handed, for it was generally more difficult to wield a sword without both. He also began to close the space between them, squinting at her as if his vision had suddenly grown worse.

Just then, he aimed a quick strike at her legs; when she moved to block it, he abruptly shifted tactics and swung broadly at her head. Framwine was still below her waist, so she had no choice other than to duck. No sooner had she done so than she felt a tugging sensation on all sides of her face. She gasped in surprise as Elphir yanked off her helmet, tossing it to the ground and lowering his sword. He, too, removed his disguise.

There was a collective intake of breath throughout the stands. Gúthwyn gaped at Elphir, unable to believe that he had just revealed her. He, in turn, stared back at her, shaking his head like he was attempting to convince himself that what he was seeing was a hallucination. Slowly, Éomund's daughter lifted her gaze towards the royal box, meeting her brother's eyes for the first time since she had lied to him about visiting Tun.

It was a terrible sight to behold. The look on Éomer's face was nothing short of pure wrath. Etched into his features was a horrible sort of stunned betrayal; his hands were clenched into fists, as though nothing would please him more than to strangle her. At his side, Prince Imrahil was also standing, his mouth open in astonishment and his brow knitted.

She barely had time to acknowledge the fact that she was in deep trouble before a storm of noise broke out in the arena. If one had not been paying attention to the match, they might have thought that something exploded. A solid wall of Rohirrim were cheering, gleeful shouts of "Lady Gúthwyn!" resonating in her ears. The Dol Amroth delegation, on the other hand, was outraged. Their catcalls and hisses were heard even over the Eorlingas' delight; a number of them were booing her, their faces made hideous with rage.

In the midst of all this stood Gúthwyn and Elphir, looking at each other in shock. Éomund's daughter did not know why the prince had pulled off her helmet. She could not think straight through the numb buzzing in her mind. It seemed to take forever for the spectators to quiet down, but even when they did she found that her thoughts were no clearer than before.

And then, right in front of the entire population of Edoras, Elphir spat at her feet. "There is no honor in this!" he roared, addressing the royal box—addressing her brother. "Does the House of Eorl believe it a fine joke, to disguise their women as men?"

Some of the warriors in the Rohirric pavilion were jumping to their feet, their murderous expressions formidable. Gúthwyn knew that they were thinking not only of her but of Éowyn, whose valor had defeated the Witch-king of Angmar: the very creature responsible for Théoden's death. From the look on Éomer's face, it was clear that he would have slain Elphir had Lothíriel not been holding his arm.

Disgusted, the eldest prince of Dol Amroth cast his helmet aside and turned away from Gúthwyn, striding back to his companions.

"A forfeit!" one of the Rohirrim called, purposely using the Common Tongue. "The prince has forfeited! Lady Gúthwyn is the winner!"

"Coward!" another shouted over the tumultuous applause, also in Westron. The pair of them must have been guards, who tended to know the second language, but they were unidentifiable in the crowd. "Our women have more bravery than any noble of Dol Amroth, Lady Gúthwyn the finest among them!"

"Your lady is a whore!" someone roared back, this time hidden amongst Imrahil's people. "She is a disgrace!"

After the few seconds it took for those who understood the Common Tongue to translate it for those who did not, a furious outcry rose amongst the Eorlingas. Every single warrior of Rohan leaped to their feet, some withdrawing their swords. Gúthwyn swallowed, clenching Framwine so hard that her knuckles turned white.

"SILENCE!"

In the horrible quiet that followed, the only sound was an infant wailing. Éomer was the one who had yelled, his face red with rage. "All of you, put down your weapons!" he bellowed. "Now!"

Slowly, reluctantly, the guards obeyed their king's orders. Once satisfied that everyone had complied, Éomer rounded on the delegation of Dol Amroth. "_Which of you dares to call my sister a whore?_"

No one moved. Indeed, Gúthwyn thought no one was breathing. When, as expected, none of the gentry came forth, Imrahil's gaze darkened. "If I find the name of the fool who insults Lady Gúthwyn in such a blasphemous manner, they will no longer be welcome at my court!"

On that note, the two leaders left the royal box, stalking down the stairs towards the arena. The crowd parted immediately for them, few daring to get close to the furious rulers. When they entered the ring, Imrahil strode towards his subjects, his every movement rigid with anger. Éomer, on the other hand, approached Gúthwyn, who braced herself for his ire.

She managed not to cry out when he grabbed her by the arm, but it felt as though he were crushing the very bone. "You have deliberately disobeyed me," he hissed, his dark eyes boring into hers. "If I were a lesser man, you would be crumpled on the ground at my feet!"

Gúthwyn did not dare speak. She had known that Éomer would be displeased with her, yet she had never imagined that it would be on such a level.

"Go to your chambers," he commanded her, his hold on her arm now so painful that she could not help but gasp. "You are not to leave them until tomorrow, do you understand?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn choked out.

Éomer released her. "Give me your sword," he spat as she massaged the white skin, already feeling the birth of several bruises, "and get out of my sight."

Unhappily, yet fully aware that she deserved such a punishment, Gúthwyn surrendered her beloved Framwine and then walked away from her brother, under the close scrutiny of everyone in the crowd. Her stride was more of a hobble: shoots of pain were racing up her ankle, making it impossible for her to move without wincing. She limped to the gate of the arena and opened it, preparing to embark upon the long journey back to Meduseld.

A sudden outbreak of murmurings surrounded her. "You fought well, my lady," Wífled whispered, reaching out and squeezing her hand. "Never you mind what those Dol Amroth"—her companion exclaimed at the swearword she used—"believe."

She was one of the few women sympathetic to Gúthwyn's position. Most of them frowned as their husbands congratulated Éomund's daughter for her display; clearly, they were more inclined to agree with the nobles of Dol Amroth. Gúthwyn found that she could care less. All she wanted to do was return to the comfort of the Golden Hall and find something to bandage her ankle with.

By the time she emerged from the arena, she was ready to collapse from the agony, but she held her head high and refused to cave in. She had done enough of that already.


	101. A Suitable Punishment

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and One:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and One**

"Gúthwyn, wait!"

The unexpected shout echoed after Éomund's daughter while she was making her way to the gates of the city, barely able to move through the pain in her ankle. Turning around, she saw that Elfhelm had followed her outside, his face taut with worry.

"What are you doing here?" Gúthwyn asked, puzzled.

"Éomer wanted someone to ensure that you returned to Meduseld safely," the Marshal explained, gesturing towards her foot.

"Why?" Gúthwyn could not help but inquire, astonished. Her brother's livid expression had certainly not hinted at any sign of concern for her injuries.

"He may be furious with you," Elfhelm replied, "yet even he noticed that you were limping. Please, let me be of assistance."

Gúthwyn hesitated for a moment, and then consented to take her friend's proffered arm. "If someone from Dol Amroth sees us, they will think that we are having an affair," she warned him, not liking how much easier it was to walk with his aid.

Elfhelm glowered at the mention of Imrahil's realm. "I would have gladly slain those whoresons, had Éomer not told us to lower our weapons. How dare they insult your honor?"

Gúthwyn shook her head, overwhelmed by guilt that he was defending the purity she had none of. "It does not matter," she sighed. "They have always said those things; now they merely do so in the open."

"Not after Imrahil is through with them," Elfhelm responded. "That man has more decency than the rest of his people—with the exception of Lothíriel, forgive me—combined. He looked as though he was ready to murder the culprit. Then again, perhaps he thinks only of relations between our realms."

"Nay, he has always been kind to me. He does not believe the rumors," Gúthwyn said, and then cringed as she tripped over a wooden sword that had been lying on the ground. Elfhelm steadied her quickly, not noticing when her breath caught at his touch.

"Even if this is true, I do not see how we can continue to be allies for much longer," he murmured. "While Imrahil is alive, his friends belittle our people and seek any excuse to look down upon us. When he is dead, Elphir takes the throne, his sister the sole reason he has not to sever ties completely. Meanwhile, the nobility will always remember the time they went to Edoras and Rohirric soldiers drew swords against them."

"As well as the fact that the king's sister is a whore," Gúthwyn said dryly, but inside she was now beginning to feel the magnitude of what she had done. Was she to be responsible for the failure of the two kingdoms' friendship? She had never dreamed of ruining Éomer's carefully-laid plans; what if it was her fault that all of her people's dealings with Dol Amroth turned sour?

"You are _not_ a whore," Elfhelm retorted, "but yes, I daresay they will recall that lie, also."

"Their imaginations are quite large. No doubt this is due to the vapidity with which they are surrounded," Gúthwyn said, looking away for only a minute.

"I would rather hang myself than set foot in their court," Elfhelm muttered.

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to speak, yet it was then that they came to the stairs, and by wordless consent they both stopped.

"Do you think you can make it up?" Elfhelm asked, looking at her ankle.

Éomund's daughter hesitated. "I can try," she said at length. Without further preamble she lifted her right leg and hopped onto the first step, wobbling dangerously in the process and nearly falling back into the street. Only Elfhelm's quick reflexes prevented her from doing so.

"Careful," he cautioned. Both of them knew it would be far easier for him to simply carry her, but she was too wary of his touch and he had more than a few inhibitions about handling his king's sister in such a manner. Thus, they hobbled along instead, Gúthwyn sometimes forced to cling to him as she was thrown off-balance.

"I am sorry, Elfhelm," she apologized when they had reached the top of the stairs, both of them looking decidedly worse for the exercise.

"Say nothing of it," the Marshal replied. "Oh, stop laughing, you two," he snapped at the guards stationed by the entrance to Meduseld. They had been rotating every half hour, so that none of them missed too much of the tournament. Those who were now being treated to the sight of a disgruntled Elfhelm helping Lady Gúthwyn up the steps were doing a poor job of restraining their smirks, though they frowned uneasily when they saw her condition. "Open the doors, for Béma's sake, can you not see that she is injured?"

The men hastened to obey, one of them happening to notice what Éomund's daughter had clad herself in as she stepped forward. "My lady?" he began cautiously. "Were you not wearing a dress at the tournament?"

"I was," Gúthwyn told him with a small smile, "but it is much easier to wield a blade in leggings."

It took a few seconds for the meaning of this statement to sink in. Then the guard's eyes widened in shock. "You… you competed?"

Gúthwyn nodded. "I had success until the final round, but I was accidentally revealed before the end of the match and so, naturally, it could not continue."

"Ask your replacements about it," Elfhelm interrupted the soldier before he could pose another question. "I was told to bring her to her chambers as quickly as possible."

The two guards made way swiftly. Gúthwyn thanked them and, relying on Elfhelm far more than she would have liked to, entered the dim hall.

"Your room is off of that corridor, right?" the Marshal inquired, gesturing.

"Yes," Gúthwyn managed, and then permitted herself to be escorted down the passage. Once they had reached her quarters, Elfhelm accompanied her over the threshold.

"I will send for the healer on my way back to the tournament," he promised, "if Éomer has not already done so."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened. "I pray you shall not," she replied, "for Tun has far greater need of his services than I do."

"Tun is a strong man," Elfhelm replied, "and—"

"And I am a weak woman?" Gúthwyn asked bitingly. The Marshal was quelled, and looked sheepishly at the ground. "Elfhelm, I forbid you to interrupt Halwend if he is taking care of my champion. I am perfectly capable of bandaging my ankle myself. Promise me that you will not make Tun wait for Halwend to examine my foot!"

Though he sighed, Elfhelm obliged her, and then gently helped her sit on her bed. As soon as she had touched the blankets he stepped back, respectfully giving her her space. "Where do you keep your bandages?"

Gúthwyn paled. As a rule, she stored them in Borogor's pack, where she had found her first supply. She had kept separate a piece of his rags, foolish though it was, and sometimes would smell it, hoping to catch his scent. "I will get them," she said hastily, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"Absolutely not," Elfhelm answered, putting a hand on her shoulder to stop her. "You will only hurt yourself more."

Shrugging out from under his grip, Gúthwyn rose to her feet, pushing him away when he tried to prevent her from doing so. "I will get them," she repeated, and hopped in a most unladylike manner towards her dresser. Attempting to crouch down, but eventually being forced to sit when her ankle protested, she opened the bottom drawer and gently reached out to touch Borogor's pack.

Perhaps Elfhelm had realized that the location of her bandages was where she also stored a number of possessions that she kept out of public view, for he remained beside her bed and did not join her. Giving herself only a few seconds to remember the man she loved, Gúthwyn retrieved some wraps and, after shutting the drawer, struggled to her feet. "I am sorry," she said to Elfhelm, guilt washing over her as she thought of how rude she had just been to him. "I did not mean to snap at you."

Elfhelm shook his head, indicating that she need not repent. "Will you be able to do the bandages yourself?"

"Yes, thank you," Gúthwyn responded, though for the briefest instant she was quite tempted to let him tend to her, just to see what the delegation of Dol Amroth would say. Then she reminded herself that the Marshal would be implicated in her supposedly dishonorable activities (if he was not already), and the idea passed away as quickly as it had come.

Though she had assured him that she was more than competent of treating her injury, Elfhelm still seemed loath to leave her. "Would you like some company, or shall I be off?"

Gúthwyn hesitated. Apart from her maids, given Éomer's anger it was probable that she would not see anyone until at least tomorrow. She did not wish to keep Elfhelm, especially if he had better things to do, but she would appreciate having someone to talk to until she was effectively locked in her chambers. "Only if you are not busy," she informed him.

"Not at all," Elfhelm said, and then glanced around. "May I pull up a chair?" he inquired, indicating the one at her desk.

"Of course!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, mortified for not having thought of it herself. "Please, take a seat."

Elfhelm did this, moving closer in order to be at her side. Gúthwyn untied the laces on her boots while he settled himself, attempting to mask her frequent winces.

"Why do you let me win?" she asked suddenly, recalling the whole reason why she had gotten herself into this mess in the first place. "Why do you not treat me as an equal on the training grounds?"

Sighing, Elfhelm studied the pattern on her blanket with newfound interest. "Gúthwyn, you have to understand the position you put the soldiers in," he said heavily. "I could probably count on one hand the number who are capable of besting you even when expending all their energy, but what you must realize is that they dare not use their full strength for fear of hurting you."

Gúthwyn yanked her right shoe off furiously, and was rewarded handsomely for her stupidity by a sharp pain in her ankle. "I would not blame them for an accident!" she ground out, hissing slightly.

"I know that," Elfhelm was quick to say, "yet in addition to the guilt your injurer would feel, there would also be the matter of your brother."

"He may be the king of Rohan," Gúthwyn growled, "but he does not have the right to punish anyone for harming me when they had no intentions of doing so!"

"Actually, he does," Elfhelm pointed out, "and while he is not an unreasonable man, none of the soldiers have any desire to be distrusted by him. Do you think Éomer could ever look at anyone who wounded his sister with the same level of affability as he does now? He treated Tun horribly for years, simply because the boy had committed the crime of loving you—what would he do if someone caused you pain? Cut you, broke your arm, reduced you to tears?"

"It would take more than a broken arm or the sight of blood to make me cry," Gúthwyn said, solely for the purpose of arguing rather than the statement of anything valid. She wrapped the bandages around her ankle as she spoke, perhaps tighter than was necessary.

"That is not what matters," Elfhelm responded. "What I am trying to tell you is that the guards would risk everything to fight with you as they do with their fellow warriors. Your satisfaction, while pleasing, is not worth any mishaps that might occur. What man would dare unleash all their power upon a king's sister?"

_Borogor,_ Gúthwyn longed to say. She and Borogor had wrestled until blood was drawn, until they were both lying on the ground and too tired to continue. Borogor had never reserved his might in her presence, always sparring with her as he would any other man—if not more fiercely. Then again, he had not known of the royalty she had been born into… would he have been so harsh on her, if he had?

_Of course he would,_ she told herself. They both knew that, regardless of their station before capture, every slave in Mordor was to Sauron what dirt is to a boot. All status was, really, was a marker that declared how influential your family was; by no means was it an indicator of your virtue or your quality. Borogor had come from a relatively poor family, of that Gúthwyn was certain, but she would never meet a braver, more decent man than him.

"Gúthwyn?"

Éomund's daughter sighed. "And if I were not a king's sister, would my safety be as much of a concern?"

"Yes, it would," Elfhelm said instantly. "Any man who hurt you would still have to answer to the wrath of your brother, regardless of his importance. No one wants to be the person upon whom such fury is released."

Gúthwyn leaned back against her pillows and briefly closed her eyes. What she would not give for an honest fight, one that was not outside of Éomer's graces…

As though he had been conjured by the weakest concentration of her mind, her brother appeared in the doorway. Until then, she had forgotten how enraged he had been to discover her participation in the tournament—now, a sinking sensation in her stomach told her that she was about to bear the brunt of his fury. Everything from his eyes, mere slits beneath his narrowed brows, to the fists that were clenched at his side spoke of nothing more than a keen desire to strike her.

Elfhelm was clearly thinking the same thing, for he had stood almost before she was aware of it and was bowing. "My lord," he murmured.

"Thank you for bringing her back," Éomer said curtly. "Will you excuse us for a moment?"

His tone of voice indicated that the Marshal was not to return. Elfhelm nodded, and with one last glance at Gúthwyn he left the room. Éomund's daughter took a deep breath, but she barely had time to collect herself before Éomer exploded in hatred.

"_Do you have any idea what you have done?_" he roared at her, the noise so loud that it made her jump. "My men drew their _swords_ at our guests on _your_account! Do you have _any_ idea how long Lothíriel and I have worked to keep our ties with Dol Amroth, despite the fact that Elphir rejected you and that Imrahil's subjects all think you are a whore? Do you not realize how _difficult_ it is to maintainrelations with that realm, or how important it is that we do?"

He paused, obviously wanting her to say something, but when she did not it seemed to make him even angrier. "And you, _baby sister,_ decided to ruin everything so you could show off in front of the nobles? _Did you not know how many hours I spent planning that tournament?_ I suppose you thought it would be a great _adventure,_ to disguise yourself as a boy and challenge the Dol Amroth champion? You _lied_ to me and went behind my back for _that _foolery? I suppose you never gave a thought to how others would see you, and how as a result our people are now to be judged? Does it mean _nothing_ to you that you represent the House of Eorl, and that you have put a stain on our reputation because you could not wait until our guests had gone home before brawling with the warriors? Does it mean _nothing_ to you that everyone in Dol Amroth now believes I cannot control my sister, or, worse, that I tolerate this sort of behavior? You have humiliated both Lothíriel and I through your antics today—can you_possibly_ begin to comprehend how mortified my wife must be?_Did you ever, _once,_ think of the consequences of your actions?_"

Gúthwyn swallowed and stared down at her feet, not daring to respond.

"_Look at me when I am speaking to you!_"

Openly fearful, Gúthwyn raised her head and tried to focus on the wall beyond her brother's contorted face, but it was impossible to ignore him.

"I am _disgusted_ with your conduct!" he bellowed, storming over to where Elfhelm had been sitting and shoving the chair aside. "You are a disgrace to our family! How _dare _you be so arrogant? _Look at me!_"

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her so hard that she was afraid her neck would snap. "Why did you do it?" he demanded. "_Why?_"

Now that it had come to this, Gúthwyn was beginning to see how pathetic an excuse her reasoning actually was. "Lord Tulkadan said something…" she whispered.

Éomer was practically beside himself with wrath. "Let me guess," he snarled: "he belittled you at the dinner table and you were foolish enough to take his words seriously? Or would you have taken up a sword anyway, and this is the best explanation you can come up with?"

"Éomer, my head!" she gasped, barely able to speak through being jerked around in his iron grip. The part of her body in question was knocking painfully backwards and forwards, utterly at his mercy. "Brother, please, stop!"

Éomer must not have realized that he was holding her so tightly, for he stared at her as though he had just seen her for the first time since yelling at her. Then he slowly released her, stepping back and breathing heavily. "Rest assured that you _will_ be punished for this," he said in a quiet, deadly voice. "I shall inform you when I think of a suitable enough sentence."

_Sentence?_ Gúthwyn wondered, her eyes widening. He made it sound as though she were a criminal, and one who was facing a hideous penalty, at that.

"You are to stay here for the rest of the night," Éomer told her, his fingers curling and uncurling in the expression of his fury. "The maids are responsible for bringing you food, and you _will_ eat all of it. Save for their orders, you shall not have any company other than Halwend, who will be arriving once he has taken care of Tun. Do you understand?"

Gúthwyn nodded, and then watched unhappily as he stalked out of her room.

_It is going to be a long night_, she thought, shivering.

* * *

"What was she thinking?" Éomer raged several hours later, storming around the confines of his and Lothíriel's chambers. "Is she so unintelligent that she does not know how barbaric your people now perceive us?" 

"Hush, Elfwine," Lothíriel murmured, for the child had started to cry. She lowered herself onto the bed and cradled him to her breast, rubbing his back soothingly. "Gúthwyn is headstrong, Éomer, you know that."

"Even Éowyn would not have participated in the tournament, and she is more outspoken than Gúthwyn!" Éomer exclaimed, pounding his fist on the nightstand. Having been unceremoniously dumped there in the aftermath of Gúthwyn's reveal, Framwine quivered, dangerously close to the edge. The mere sight of it made his blood boil. "Thanks to my_baby sister,_ the entire day was ruined! Did you not see how many of my men brought their swords to the dinner feast?"

"You have indulged her often," Lothíriel replied gently. "Perhaps she did not realize that this time was different. Oh, Elfwine, be still!"

The little prince was sobbing, yet even through his tears he was able to reach out and tug on his mother's hair. Éomer felt guilty for both his son's fear and his wife's discomfort, though at the moment all of his thoughts were concentrated on Gúthwyn.

"I may give her more free rein than perhaps is befitting," he seethed, "but I made it very clear that she was not to fight with the men until our guests departed, and she knew that included the tournament as well!"

Eventually abandoning his paces and sitting down on the edge of the bed, he ran his hands through his hair and exhaled, trying to calm himself before he frightened Elfwine further. "She will have to be punished," he said.

Lothíriel stood and began walking around the room, still patting their son on the back. "Have you decided what it will be?" she asked.

Éomer shook his head. "I have already banned her from the training grounds," he replied. "Even if I were to extend the amount of time she cannot go there, she would find another way to practice. If I forbid her from going to the stables, it will interfere with Sceoh's training, which I do not want to do, especially since he is skittish around the stableboys. I cannot stop her from seeing her friends, because she is close even with the maids, and they must serve her. I do not see what else is sufficient enough to make her regret disobeying my orders."

Sighing, he glanced darkly at Framwine. Surely there had to be a chastisement that would get his point across. Perhaps Lothíriel could help him?

He looked up at his wife; her brow was already knitted in thought. "You know her better than I," she at last conceded. "And as you said, you have already taken away something that she greatly enjoys."

His hopes deflated, Éomer buried his face in his hands, trying to think over Elfwine's wailing. His mind was grasping for the perfect method of discipline, the one thing that would make Gúthwyn truly miserable and force her to see the error of her ways.

"Which leaves you," Lothíriel continued, her voice sounding very far away, "with the question of what, besides her sword and her horse, Gúthwyn loves most of all."

"Gúthy?"

Elfwine abruptly stopped crying. The muted sounds of a squirming child met Éomer's ears as he froze, realizing that there was something he could prevent Gúthwyn from doing, something that would show her how serious he was about her obedience.

"Want Gúthy," Elfwine said, slithering down Lothíriel's leg and toddling over to Éomer. The child pushed at his father's knees, his expression insistent. "Gúthy mine."

Éomer looked down into the eyes of his son and knew exactly what he had to do.


	102. What the Children Saw

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Two:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Two**

After Cwene had brought Gúthwyn dinner, accompanied by a side of scolding—"What if you had been hurt? What if you had been killed?"—Éomund's daughter was left alone, with only the throbbing pains in her ankle for company. Halwend had examined it earlier and declared none of the bones to be broken, but he cautioned her against doing strenuous activity in the near future and he warned that a recurring injury was never a good sign.

Utterly bored, yet at the same time glad that she did not have to go to the feast and face the nobles from Dol Amroth, Gúthwyn whiled away the hours by alternately reading Beregil's book and trying not to think of how angry Éomer was with her. She had never seen him so furious. He had always tolerated her unusual pastimes with at least some degree of lenience, but now that she had openly defied him he was far less humoring.

Unfortunately, she knew fully well that she deserved his ire. He had never specifically told her that she could not participate in the tournament, but the expression on his face whenever she had mentioned the games had warned her well enough that she was not to join them. Not only had she tossed aside his wishes, but she had also lied to him in order to do so, which had cost her his trust.

Sighing, Gúthwyn shifted uncomfortably and wondered how late it was. The feast had undoubtedly ended by now; hopefully, it had not been ruined by her revealing. She found herself guessing as to whether or not Elphir had attended, or if he was so disgusted by her display that he wanted nothing to do with her people. It was more likely the latter—he had been so repulsed to discover that he was sparring with her that she did not think he would ever look at her again.

All of a sudden, there was a sharp knock at her door. "Who is it?" Gúthwyn called, but a sinking feeling in her stomach told her it was Éomer, perhaps returning to yell at her.

She was right. "Éomer," was the short response, the courtesy of his not barging in on her due solely to the off chance that she might be changing into her nightgown.

"Come in," Gúthwyn said quietly, hoping her voice betrayed none of her apprehensiveness.

"I have decided your punishment," Éomer announced, discarding all semblances of pleasantries. Gúthwyn met his gaze evenly, a small, stubborn, childish part of her refusing to ask him what it was.

Evidently, he had expected her to, for there was a short pause before he continued. "You and Elfwine are not to be in the same room or outside together for two weeks."

Gúthwyn felt as though she had just been punched in the stomach and all the wind knocked out of her. "You cannot be serious," she gasped, the color draining from her cheeks. Her nephew's face hovered in front of her eyes, his gurgling laughter echoing in her ears.

"Yes, I am," Éomer replied harshly. "You disobeyed me and made your people look like savages today—and the repercussions of that will last far longer than the period of time in which you will not be allowed to see my son. Obviously, Hammel and Haiweth are not under my control, but if they were I can assure you that you would not be permitted to be in their company either."

To her horror, tears began prickling in Gúthwyn's eyes at the sentence of not being able to hold her nephew for half a month. "Éomer, please," she whispered, blinking rapidly, "that is not—"

"Fair?" Éomer interjected. "Perhaps you should have thought about the consequences of your actions before you carried them out. Hopefully you shall take away from this the fact that I will not tolerate your reprehensible behavior, my sister though you may be!"

"But—"

"Enough!" Éomer barked, causing her to jump. "Do not argue with me! You _will_ learn obedience, and I _will_ separate you from Elfwine for a year if that is what is required!"

Gúthwyn drew in a shaky breath, quivering from the effort it took not to start crying. She could not begin to comprehend how miserable her life was going to be until the two weeks were over.

"Éomer…"

"Goodnight," he said shortly, but then his expression softened slightly. "If you need anything, send for one of the maids."

With that, he departed, and while Gúthwyn did not give in to the sobs that were so desperately trying to escape her, every fiber of her being was pining for her nephew. She yearned to cradle him in her arms and kiss him, to tell him stories and take him for walks down the street. The only time she had been kept from him before was when she had had the fever, and in doing so sought to spare him the same fate.

"Two weeks," she whispered to herself, curling up and hugging her knees to her chest. Though her ankle protested she ignored it, the pain from her foot nothing to what her heart was experiencing. She had not even gotten the chance to say goodbye—what would he do when he realized that his aunt was avoiding him? At the very idea, she had an unbearable urge to see him, if only to tell him that she loved him but that she could not talk to him until her punishment was over.

Feeling a hundred times worse than she had at any point of Éomer yelling at her, Gúthwyn buried her face in her pillow and swallowed the lump in her throat, trying not to burst into tears. She already missed her nephew so much that it hurt. Reaching down, she clutched at the blanket, channeling her misery through her iron grip.

That night, she dreamed of Haldor taking Hammel and Haiweth away from her, and leaving behind a bloody corpse that had a green ribbon wrapped around its tiny wrist.

* * *

"You look horrible." 

Gúthwyn glanced up to see Cobryn sitting down beside her in the discouragingly Elfwine-free hall. "Thank you," she muttered, running her fingers through her hair.

"Is your ankle bothering you?" he asked, knitting his brow.

Shaking her head, Éomund's daughter replied, "I did not sleep well." In addition to her horrible nightmare, from which she had awoken sweaty and shaking, her confinement to her quarters had meant that she could not go outside and be soothed by the stars. She had been forced to remain in her room, the ensuing panic attack so severe that she had thrown up in her chamber pot.

"And what else?" Cobryn pressed, displaying his disconcerting knack for knowing when more was troubling her than she confessed to.

Gúthwyn sighed, for a moment debating whether or not to lie to him and say that lack of rest was all that made her shoulders droop this afternoon, but at length she reasoned that he would figure it out anyway. "I am not allowed to see Elfwine for two weeks," she admitted, burying her face in her hands. "It is my punishment for entering the tournament."

She did not see Cobryn's mouth open slightly, but she heard the surprise in his tone as he asked, "Éomer decided this?"

Gúthwyn nodded. "If they had not been my children, he would have forbidden me from being with Hammel and Haiweth as well."

"That does not sound like something your brother would do," Cobryn mused. "It sounds like…" His voice trailed off. "I wonder," he began quietly, "if you do not have Lothíriel to thank for this new method of chastisement."

Lifting her head, Gúthwyn gazed across the room and rested her eyes upon the queen, who was dining with Éomer and her father. She had been noticeably more animated than usual ever since Éomund's daughter arrived in the great hall, but as a hostess she could easily have been attempting to gloss over any tension from yesterday's events.

It was then that Lothíriel's words, spoken less than a week ago, floated to the top of Gúthwyn's mind: _One wrong move, and I swear I will make Elfwine hate you for the rest of his life!_

"Do you think she would be so petty as to keep me from her son?" she asked Cobryn, frowning.

"It is no secret that Elfwine loves you as much as he does Éomer and Lothíriel, and that he listens to you more than anyone. It may be that Lothíriel has decided such loyalty is imprudent to continue."

Gúthwyn listened to Cobryn's explanation, her eyes widening at what she heard, but there was more.

"Perhaps she hopes to alienate him from you in the time she has. Elfwine is young; he is impressionable. It is unlikely that he will be influenced in half a month, especially when one considers how he spent this morning—"

"What do you mean?" Gúthwyn interrupted, desperate for any news of her nephew's doings.

Cobryn grimaced. "All throughout breakfast he was demanding to see you. He sometimes forgets that you sleep until noon and clamors for your presence, but now that I look back on today's tantrum I think he must have realized that he was not permitted to be with you."

Gúthwyn visibly deflated. "I miss him so much," she whispered, curling her fists in silent agony.

"Two weeks is not very long," Cobryn pointed out, "although Éomer has just given you more of a reason to wish his insufferable guests away from Rohan."

He was right—the end of her punishment coincided with the departure of Imrahil and his subjects. "That is true," she said, smiling a little. "It seems as if they have been intruding on us for years already."

"Speaking of intruding..." Cobryn murmured, glancing towards the doors. At the same time, his posture straightened and he leaned backwards, so that their conversation appeared less intimate. Gúthwyn looked over as well and saw the usual flock of tittering ladies Lothíriel associated herself with entering Meduseld, evidently coming to pay the queen a visit. A wry smirk crossed Éomer's face as he took leave of his wife, as though to say it was her funeral for tolerating their company.

Noticing that several women were surreptitiously eying her and Cobryn, Gúthwyn imitated her friend and adjusted her body language so that it did not betray their closeness.

"I wonder why Lady Míriel never joins them," Cobryn said quietly, his gaze flicking over each member of Lothíriel's circle.

"She and Lothíriel hate each other," Gúthwyn explained, shrugging. "I am not sure why, but Lothíriel ignores her whenever she sees her and the others follow her example."

"And yet whenever Lothíriel is not around, Lady Míriel assumes her position as their leader," Cobryn mused curiously. "Interesting, how court works sometimes."

His tone was light, yet Gúthwyn saw him continuing to watch the queen, as if he were trying to unravel the mystery behind the woman's behavior. Gúthwyn thought the matter just as strange as he did—and she had not yet forgotten Lord Tulkadan's comment concerning the mysterious tutor—but she knew by now that Lothíriel would not divulge so much as the contents of her last meal in the presence of Éomund's daughter.

"What are your plans for today?" Gúthwyn asked with a sigh, abandoning the intrigue of the queen's personal life.

"I need to create a new lesson plan for the boys," Cobryn replied, referring to the class he taught in the morning. "Most of them are ready to move on to more advanced parrying."

"I take it… Hammel is not amongst them?" Gúthwyn inquired tentatively.

Cobryn shook his head. "He does not try, and Wulfríd does his best to make the situation worse. He absolutely detests Hammel."

"Why?" Gúthwyn questioned, baffled. Hammel had never done anything to Éothain's son—he did not merit such hatred.

"Aldeth," Cobryn answered grimly. "It seems that Wulfríd has now taken an interest in her, and he views Hammel as a threat."

She felt like an idiot for not having remembered this latest turn in Hammel's romantic difficulties. "I completely forgot about that," she breathed. "And now he is attempting to intimidate Hammel?"

"I do not believe it implausible," Cobryn said. "As far as I am aware, it is not working, but Wulfríd does not realize that he is only breeding hate."

No wonder Hammel had been so irritable recently. "I have half a mind to speak to his mother," Gúthwyn responded angrily, "yet she listens to Lothíriel and I do not wish to tell Éothain that his son is a horrible human being."

"Hammel would not want you to," Cobryn reminded her. "Nor would he be pleased if he was aware that I discussed this issue with you. He is utterly opposed to interference on your part."

Gúthwyn tried to ignore the hurt she felt at being shunned by Hammel, but it was a losing battle. "Why does he spurn my attention? I have always done what is best for him—or I have attempted to. I know I am not perfect, but at the very least he should be grateful that he has a roof over his head and food in his mouth every day."

Her mind flashed back to the reprimand she had given the child, what felt like weeks ago yet what had actually only occurred yesterday. Who knew whether he would heed her words? She had no desire to repeat them; however, if he continued to display such poor behavior, she could not tolerate it and thus appear weak. His disposition had been atrocious for months, and if she allowed it to worsen it would be difficult to exude any sort of control over him.

"He may simply resent the fact that he cannot make friends with children his own age," Cobryn replied. "Most of the boys do not talk to him for fear of incurring Wulfríd's hostility, but those who might otherwise are likely turned away by his arrogance. He does not think highly of his companions, and it shows."

"That is not the child I cared for in Mordor," Gúthwyn murmured sadly. "He was always so quiet; he never said anything unkind to me. And yet though he is now free from the shadow of that land, his mood has grown darker. I do not understand why—surely Aldeth cannot be the cause of all this?"

Cobryn sighed. "I think it not impossible that his as of yet unrequited love for her has brought to light other problems that he has thus far concealed." Lowering his voice, he added, "I know you perceive him unaffected by the time he lived in Mordor, but I disagree."

Gúthwyn stiffened. "He was only a child," she retorted. "He did not see anything horrendous, I made sure of that. He and Haiweth have no reason to be traumatized."

Already, Cobryn was shaking his head. "You were not with them all the time," he pointed out. "You cannot be sure of what they were witness to."

"They were witness to nothing!" Gúthwyn hissed, trembling at the accusation. "They are both fine—stop implying otherwise!"

"You are in denial," Cobryn said bluntly. "No child can go through hell and emerge unscathed."

Gúthwyn leaped to her feet. "How dare you," she snarled, "insinuate that I did not care for them well enough?" He opened his mouth to interject, but she barreled on, Haldor's threats against Haiweth echoing in her ears. "You speak of that which you have only heard rumor of, of that which you hold no knowledge! You have no right to discuss such matters with me, as though you were the one who has fed them and clothed them for almost a decade!"

Furious, she whirled around and stormed away, not heeding the calculating observations of the Dol Amroth women. Listening to Cobryn's warning about the children's mental health had unnerved her far more than perhaps it should; the worst part was the small voice in her mind that suggested he was right, that she would be a fool not to suspect they had seen more than she thought they had.

Pushing open the doors, she took a deep breath and, in an attempt to clear away her worries, decided to visit Tun. Guiltily, she recalled that her mind had not turned to him at all last night, so distraught had she been over the prospect of not being able to hold Elfwine for half a month. Walking faster, as if it would make up for this slight, she inhaled deeply again and set her course for her champion's home.

_Hammel and Haiweth are fine,_ she repeated to herself one more time, before she determinedly focused on her imminent arrival at Tun's house. _They were never under the shadow of Mordor. They are fine._

* * *

It was late afternoon, and Legolas son of Thranduil was reclining in the Golden Hall of Edoras, exchanging some light-hearted banter with his friends Raniean and Trelan. The latter was a more active participant, as the former tended to become aloof whenever a mortal entered the room. Too used to this behavior to find it a source of concern, Legolas and Trelan carried on as they normally would, though eventually the conversation turned to more serious matters. 

"The tournament was entertaining," Trelan agreed, for Legolas had just mentioned the subject. "Unfortunately, it did not end well."

"No, it did not," Legolas said quietly, recalling the uproar that had taken place after Gúthwyn was revealed. She had fought excellently—he had had a suspicion, based on her build and the way she moved, that it was her, but he had refrained from saying anything until the end of the match. And at that point, he had felt it better to keep his mouth shut: the barbs tossed back and forth amongst the two realms were shocking, to say the least. He had not realized that relations between them had soured so quickly.

"I do not know what that woman was thinking," Raniean muttered.

"Her name is Gúthwyn," Legolas automatically corrected, having done this hundreds of times. "And she wished to participate. There is nothing wrong with that."

"In other words, she was being selfish," Raniean retorted.

Legolas decided that it would not be in either of their interests to continue the argument, for there was weight in both sides. Casting about for something else to say, he finally settled on, "Shall we meet the others at the archery range?"

"You did not get enough shooting in yesterday?" Trelan asked amusedly. "I swear, if you were not a prince—or rather, if your father were any less strict—you would spend all your days training."

"That is probably true." Legolas smiled, already itching for the feel of his bow beneath his fingertips. "Although it would not be a very productive use of my time." Archery was important, he was not denying that, but the running of his colony had to take precedence over his pastimes.

"Perhaps you should set about finding a wife," Raniean suggested, smirking. "Then you might not need to practice so often."

Legolas shook his head. There were few maidens in his colony, and he had simply not met one he felt like he was ready to spend the rest of his life with. Furthermore, given the fact that he had all of eternity to marry, he was not in any rush.

Just then, Trelan gave a most undignified snort of laughter, and gestured with the hand that was not pressed over his mouth. Legolas turned to look and saw one of the stranger sights he had encountered this visit: Rohan's young prince crawling at top speed across the great hall, clearly bent on reaching the other end and utterly unsupervised by either of his parents. His face was contorted in a furious concentration most amusing to behold.

"What is he _doing?_" Trelan asked, watching Elfwine and still chuckling. "He looks as though he has gone mad!"

"I do not think Éomer or Lothíriel know he is here," Legolas replied. "Elfwine!" he called, wondering if it would be better to detain him until one of his parents realized he was missing and came to reclaim him.

Elfwine craned his neck at the sound of his name and changed his course, now heading directly towards them. Raniean sighed, though the child did not notice this as he came to a halt in front of the Elves.

"Leg!" he exclaimed, and launched into a string of Rohirric of which all Legolas could identify was "Gúthy."

"Did he just call you 'Leg'?" Trelan inquired, snickering. "Fitting. Do I have permission to call you that, my lord?"

"If you want your head to be the centerpiece of my table," Legolas responded.

Irritated that they were not understanding him, Elfwine repeated what sounded like a command, once again mentioning Gúthwyn.

"I am sorry, Elfwine," Legolas said in the Common Tongue, "but I do not know what you are trying to tell me."

Elfwine paused. After a minute of what appeared to be difficult thinking, he finally managed in halting Westron, "Where Gúthy?"

Legolas paused. He had not seen Gúthwyn at all today; perhaps Raniean or Trelan had? There was no one else in the throne room, and he did not wish to leave Elfwine alone while he ran around trying to find a servant who might have a clue regarding her whereabouts.

"Do either of you have any idea where she might be?" he questioned his friends.

They both shrugged, at just as much a loss as he was. She could not be at the training grounds, for Éomer had banned her from them; it was possible that she had gone to the stables, for she had mentioned that she had just obtained a new horse and needed to grow accustomed to it. Then again, her champion Tun had been injured in yesterday's games—she might also be visiting him, and Legolas could not even begin to guess where he lived.

"I am sorry," he said again, gazing down into the baby's wide brown eyes. "I am not sure."

Elfwine stamped his foot in annoyance. "Want Gúthy!" he snapped. "Leg get Gúthy!"

Legolas hesitated. He did not wish to deprive the boy of his aunt, but he had not the faintest inkling of where she was—nor was he even aware if Éomer or Lothíriel knew that their son had wandered into the great hall.

"Peas?" Elfwine begged, his bottom lip trembling. "Effine need Gúthy!"

"All right," Legolas reluctantly acquiesced, not wanting to be the one responsible for making the poor child cry. Ignoring Raniean's disbelieving look, he got to his feet and held his hand out. "I will help you find Gúthwyn."

Elfwine grabbed his fingers eagerly. "Gúthy," he said, pointing at the hallway leading towards Gúthwyn's chambers.

"Thank the Valar!"

Glancing up at the unexpected voice, Legolas saw Lothíriel rushing over towards them, distinctly frazzled and her gaze fixed on Elfwine. "You know better than to run off while I am getting dressed," she chastised her son, reaching down to pick him up. Elfwine squirmed away and latched onto Legolas's thigh, causing Thranduil's son to shift uncomfortably. "Elfwine, release him!" she ordered, but to no avail.

"He wants me to bring him to Gúthwyn," Legolas explained. "Do you know where she is?"

Lothíriel suddenly froze, her eyes narrowing. "He asked for her?"

"Demanded, actually," Legolas said with a smile. "Elfwine, would you like your mother to take you to Gúthwyn?"

"She is not allowed to see him," Lothíriel cut in quickly. "It is her punishment for entering the tournament."

"Oh," Legolas said, taken aback at this unusual method of disciplining. "I am sorry, I did not—"

"It is not your fault," Lothíriel assured him. "Elfwine, _come._"

"No!" Elfwine shrieked, clutching at Legolas even tighter. "Effine need Gúthy!"

"You are _not_ seeing your aunt," Lothíriel told her son. "Let go of Legolas at once!"

In response, Elfwine's grip became vise-like. "Need Gúthy," he pleaded. "Leg get Gúthy!"

"Elfwine, you must return to your mother," Legolas said gently, crouching down as well as he was able to with his leg encumbered by the prince's weight. "You cannot be with Gúthwyn right now."

Elfwine began wailing, his tiny face curdled with misery. Legolas's heart went out to this wretched infant, who desired only his aunt's company and yet could not have it. He could barely imagine how Gúthwyn was feeling, if her nephew was this unhappy. Slowly, he prized Elfwine's hands away from his shin and lifted him up, handing him over to Lothíriel. The child screamed in protest, kicking and flailing in his mother's arms.

Her face a brilliant shade of red, Lothíriel exited the room as quickly as she was able to, pausing just once: to apologize to Legolas, Raniean, and Trelan for the interruption.

"I am glad mortals are so capable of controlling their children," Raniean snorted derisively. "Small wonder that they are all self-absorbed—"

"_Raniean,_" Legolas said warningly.

"You know," Trelan interjected hastily, for Raniean had opened his mouth, "I think going to the archery range sounds like an excellent idea. Shall we?"


	103. Black Pudding

A/N: One of my reviewers linked me to a fanvideo that their friend made for the Rohan Pride Trilogy. It was created by Lima3081 (this site won't let me post URLs properly, so you can search for Lima3081 on YouTube), and it's called "Stand My Ground (Guthwyn)." If you guys are interested, you should check it out, because it's amazing! I'm incredibly flattered that someone made a fanvideo for this series; I still can't believe it, lol! They used clips from another movie and they fit in with the LOTR clips beautifully, I can't even begin to describe how good it is. If Lima3081 didn't get my e-mail, hopefully they now know how much I appreciate them doing this!

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Three:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

Chapter One Hundred and Three

With a sigh, Gúthwyn entered the stables, relieved to see that no one was there except for the horses. Earlier in the day, when she had gone to visit Tun, she had barely been able to reach her destination for being mobbed by her people, all demanding to know how she had snuck past everyone to enter the tournament, all wishing to congratulate her on doing so well against Elphir.

Normally, she would not have minded a chance to converse with the other Rohirrim, but today their words only brought back fresh memories of what her punishment was. Forbidden from even looking at Elfwine, she was more miserable than she had been for months; every moment that went by was like a year, each more unbearable than the last. Her stay with Tun—naturally, under Brithwen's supervision—had distracted her from this pain, yet as soon as she had bidden farewell to him she had felt it all over again.

Exhaling in a futile attempt to clear her troubles away, Gúthwyn walked towards Sceoh's stall. She was not planning on taking him for a ride at the moment: the streets were crowded with people finishing their daily chores, and she was not ready to face another round of questioning. Furthermore, if she were to venture outside of the city, she would have to go by the tents of the delegation from Dol Amroth, and on no account did she desire to do so.

Luckily, she had not seen any of them since she had been so rude to Cobryn—something she needed to apologize for, but she did not want to interrupt his work and would thus wait until after dinner—though it was only a matter of time before she had to endure their company. She was not anticipating the occasion in the least. Elphir, of course, hated her. That was to be expected. What bothered her most about the eventual confrontation was the possibility that Prince Imrahil now viewed her as a self-centered woman who only cared for her own pleasure, even if it involved humiliating her brother.

_Which I am not,_ she told herself, though not convincingly. She had competed in the tournament for a reason, but that did not erase the fact that she had made her brother look like a fool. Éomer had every right to be furious with her. He had every right to ban her from seeing his son, even if the punishment tore her apart. Was she, then, no different than one of the Dol Amroth women, who were concerned solely with themselves?

_I am nothing like that,_ she vowed silently, reaching the door to Sceoh's stall. _I would rather die than be so conceited._

In what she hoped to be a friendly greeting, Sceoh whickered softly when she withdrew from her pocket a carrot she had gotten from one of the cooks. "Here you are," she whispered, placing it on the wall from where he would consume it after she had left. "We are not going for a ride today, there are too many people outside. Would you mind if I groom you?"

Obviously, Sceoh did not respond, but when she stepped inside the stall he did not move away from her, and when she held up a brush for his inspection it seemed to her that he was not averse to the idea. She began combing his mane, gently, careful to position herself so that he could still see her. While she did this, she found herself talking to him, something she had always done with Heorot.

"Do you think I should not have entered the tournament?" she asked softly.

Sceoh blinked.

"I know it was what Amrothos wanted me to do, but it was never my intent to win Elphir's admiration; I am not so foolish as to assume fighting with him would earn that. Yet perhaps I should have ignored Lord Tulkadan?"

She had not really expected an answer from her horse, though she had hoped for something a little more insightful than a blank stare. Sighing, she resumed Sceoh's grooming, thereafter keeping her troubles to herself. And so she passed the next hour, elongating the process far beyond what it normally was. Even so, by the time she finished she wished she were not done, because now she had no excuse to remain in the stables and she would have to go outside.

Opening the door, Éomund's daughter did not see Amrothos until she had almost bumped into him. Jumping, she quickly moved out of the way, and was pleasantly surprised when he merely nodded his head in greeting. Then, much to her delight, he walked by her, going inside the stables without so much a cocky word to throw in her direction.

Ecstatic, but nevertheless puzzled by this behavior, Gúthwyn scrutinized the prince, wondering what was the cause of this sudden change, or who she had to thank for his distanced manner. As she did, she noticed that he was limping considerably.

"What happened to you?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He paused, the action seeming to take much effort, and then slowly turned around. "My dear brother happened," he said, the usual charm (or what he must have believed to be charm, for it certainly never came across as such to her) gone from his voice. His right hand drifted over his ribs while he spoke, the betraying action indicating bruises at the very least. "I fought against him at the tournament."

Gúthwyn suddenly recalled Elfhelm telling her about Elphir's last opponent, who was, according to him, barely capable of returning to the Dol Amroth pavilion, not to mention bleeding. "Did he break your nose?" she inquired suspiciously, examining Amrothos's face and observing that that particular area looked crooked.

Amrothos nodded. Part of her wanted to feel sorry for him, though he had escaped further punishment by telling Éomer shortly after the tournament that she had slipped away from him and he was thus unaccountable for her actions; the other part recalled her treatment by him and wished sorely to compliment Elphir for his delivery of a well-deserved beating.

"He knew it was me," Amrothos said sullenly, hobbling over to the stall that had been provided for his horse. Gúthwyn leaned against the door, unable to take her eyes off of the pitiful sight that was the youngest prince of Dol Amroth. "It made him even more determined to win." He shifted and winced, his other hand coming up to press against his ribs.

"You will not be able to ride, if you are that injured," Gúthwyn pointed out, gesturing at his torso.

"Oh, really?" Amrothos snapped. "I had no idea."

Taken aback by his rudeness, Gúthwyn asked, "Then why are you here?"

"My horse needs to be fed, did you think I would let any of your stableboys touch him?" Amrothos retorted. For the first time, Gúthwyn noticed that a pack had been slung over his shoulder.

Her anger flaring up at the insult to Breca and Eacbald, Gúthwyn narrowed her eyes. "They are more than capable of taking care of your steed."

"I do not let commoners handle my mare," Amrothos spat.

"And I suppose the stableboys of Dol Amroth have such vaster experience?" Gúthwyn demanded, furious with his insistence on degrading her people.

Amrothos gave her a look. "I do not let commoners handle my mare," he repeated witheringly.

The revelation that Amrothos actually visited his horse other than when he was riding it was astounding, yet also inconsistent with what Elphir had once told her: that, along with Lothíriel, the youngest prince of Dol Amroth only viewed his mount as something to transport him, rather than as a creature that needed to be fed and watered and loved just as humans did.

"Elphir said that you never spent time with your horse," she blurted out in confusion, wondering at the nature behind this discrepancy.

Again, Amrothos shot her a glare. "Elphir likes to think that I have no interests beyond whores," he said coldly. "I see no reason to bring him along when I make trips to the stables."

Gúthwyn opened her mouth to speak, but before she could he asked, "Are you done questioning me?" in a tone that brooked no room for further conversation. "Good," he said when she was quelled. Without another word, he turned around and limped over to his mare's stall, ignoring her completely. His mood was foul; the stables positively reeked from it.

Bewildered by the encounter, Gúthwyn left him to his own devices and exited the stables, though while she was puzzled she was also relieved that he had not made any derogatory comments about her supposed promiscuity. Perhaps he had given up on irritating her—he had not even mentioned the matter of his payment. Hopefully, in light of the disaster the tournament had been for both of them, he would simply forget about it. She did not like the idea of being in debt to him. Then again, it was not as if she had much to give. What was the worst he could possibly ask of her?

* * *

As the week came to a close, Gúthwyn grew to believe that Amrothos had indeed abandoned the issue of his retribution, and would no longer seek it from her. He soon resumed his flirtatious manners, the reemergence of them coinciding with the healing of his injuries, and he behaved towards her as though the tournament had never happened. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the rest of his people. 

It was an unspoken fact that Éomund's daughter was now wholly shunned by the delegation of Dol Amroth. At every feast Éomer hosted, she was utterly ignored, some of the more vicious lords and ladies going out of their way to avoid even dancing near her. Elphir was never present at these events, preferring to take his meals in his tent with Alphros. If they walked by each other on the main street, he refused to look at her, and if his son was at his side he would ask him something completely irrelevant to the conversation they had been having before espying her.

Luckily, Prince Imrahil at least did not seem to find her totally at fault for the mess her reputation was in. He had apologized personally to her for the conduct of his people at the tournament, something that had touched her deeply. The identity of the noble who had called her a whore would never be discovered, unless those standing next to them came forward, but he assured her that he was doing everything in his power to extract a confession from someone.

In all honesty, Gúthwyn would not have minded if no one admitted to slandering her in front of the entire population of Edoras, for she wanted nothing to do with Dol Amroth anymore and she was eagerly anticipating their departure. The fact that she would once again be able to see Elfwine after they had left was also cause for impatience in this regard, as it was torture to hear Lothíriel smugly recounting his exploits at the dinner table and know that she had missed them.

To keep herself busy, she visited Tun every other day—never more, mindful of what Brithwen would think. Her champion was slowly on the road to recovery, though it was difficult for him to move and, like her, he sorely desired to be back on the training grounds. After demanding full-length accounts of her fights at the tournament, he had taken to relying on her for news of his friends, which she made sure to gather whenever she was amongst her people.

All in all, however, she could not say that she was happy. She once again had the friendship of Cobryn, whom she had apologized to for her outburst, but he was often busy preparing his classes or advising Éomer. Tun was excellent company, and their friendship was slowly returning to what it had once been, yet she only saw him for an hour or two, and a couple of days a week at that. She had taken Sceoh for a few rides, though she had to approach such excursions with caution and they were not as long as she would have liked. Occasionally she joined Hildeth at the washing circles, but most of the women tended to leave when she arrived, and she did not want to keep them from doing their chores.

What with such limitations placed on whom she could socialize with, she found that she was feeling more ostracized from her companions than ever before. She could not go to the training grounds, which meant that she was unable to see most of the men whom she had interacted with every day. Hammel and Haiweth were often busy, leaving little room for her to be with them. Dining at feasts was a miserable occasion, for more often than not she was surrounded by nobles who frowned whenever she so much as opened her mouth.

And so, she gradually began turning to the one person with whom she could talk to without restriction: Legolas. In the process of rescuing her numerous times from Amrothos's overbearing presence—namely on the dance floor, although once or twice she had pretended that she needed to speak with the Elf in order to avoid an otherwise unpleasant dialogue—they had developed an unusual friendship. It was more of an agreement, really: neither of them broached any unpleasant topics, and any discourse between them was, as a rule, light and inconsequential.

She found comfort in the fact that Legolas was always polite to her, regardless of what his friends thought of her. He also did not hold the Dol Amroth delegation (with the exception of Prince Imrahil) in high regard; she did not have to guard her speech around him, and they had had a couple of laughs over the frivolity of the nobility. The few times that their conversation turned serious were almost exclusively at night, when she felt claustrophobic from her dreams and he wished to look at the stars. And even then, she discovered that she was becoming less uneasy around him.

Thus, she was relieved to note his appearance at a feast Éomer held with approximately one week remaining in the Dol Amroth visit, for at least she would have someone to talk to. Cobryn, naturally, would remain with the advisors; Éomer would not leave Lothíriel's side; after eating and dancing for a little while, most of her people turned in early, irked by the atrocious manners of the Dol Amroth delegation; Hammel and Haiweth she rarely saw during this events; poor Elfwine was kept away from the festivities on her account.

They had just settled down for their meal, Gúthwyn unfortunately placed next to Amrothos and far away from the nearest basket of bread. She was casting around for something else to consume when, like a poisonous snake that had learned the art of speech, Amrothos leaned over and murmured, "Might I suggest the black pudding?"

"The what?" Gúthwyn asked. She had heard the word "pudding," which would most certainly not be served with the main meal.

"The black pudding," Amrothos repeated, a grin on his face. "It is considered a delicacy in Dol Amroth… and it is a favorite of my father's."

Gúthwyn looked at him in confusion. "Pudding is a dessert," she said. "I cannot have that for my dinner."

Amrothos chuckled. "You are joking, right?" Reaching out, he drew towards him a dish of considerably unnatural-looking food, dark in color and reminding Gúthwyn of what she had been forced to eat in Mordor. Unlike the pudding she was used to, it was round and had a much firmer consistency. "Try it," Amrothos suggested, pushing the platter in her direction.

"No," Gúthwyn said flatly, wrinkling her nose.

"You would insult the cooks by not even deigning to give it a tiny taste?" Amrothos asked, smirking. "There is not much in it, I believe there are onions somewhere…"

"Onions are not black," Gúthwyn pointed out, disgusted by what the prince would stoop to call food. "Meat is, however, when it is rancid."

Amrothos raised an eyebrow. "Actually, I am quite certain that it is covered in maggots," he replied.

Gúthwyn paused. What, then, had she and the children been served in Mordor? She had always assumed it to be rotting, which would explain why it made her so sick.

"Try it," Amrothos said again. "Perhaps you will discover that you have a liking for this, ah, delicacy."

"Will you stop pestering me if I do?" Gúthwyn asked, only half-serious at first. When he smiled and nodded, however, her eyes widened. "You will leave me alone for the rest of the night?"

"Is my company that horrible?" he inquired in a hurt tone.

_Yes,_ Gúthwyn answered silently. Aloud she merely looked at him and inquired, "Will you?"

Amrothos heaved a great, exaggerated sigh. "Yes, if you insist, I shall. Now, you were about to have some?"

The food in question considerably more favorable now that it had the promise of Amrothos ignoring her attached to it, Gúthwyn exhaled and served herself the smallest piece of pudding that she could find, having second thoughts when it hit her plate with a sickening _squelch._ Surely this could not be seen as decent fare by anyone civilized.

Cutting off a small section, she lifted it to her mouth and bit into it. She nearly gagged, so horrible was the taste. Abandoning any hopes of chewing the repulsive food, she swallowed as quickly as possible. _By the Valar,_ she thought, _this is positively foul!_

Only the fact that she would be free from Amrothos's company made her finish the loathsome substance. When she was done, she grabbed her goblet and took a long draught of mead, for though she was not particularly fond of the drink she needed something to wash away the pudding.

"I cannot believe you think this is food," she told Amrothos, but he did not answer her. Indeed, he had already turned to Erchirion, who was sitting on his other side, and struck up a conversation.

Impressed, Gúthwyn looked at the black pudding and immediately decided that the miserable experience had been worth it, if it had rid her of Amrothos so efficiently. Pleased with herself for having resisted the urge to vomit, she leaned back in her chair and listened to the talk around her, not in the mood for more sustenance.

Less than a minute later, however, a powerful wave of nausea swelled through her stomach. Her mouth watered with saliva and she nearly threw up, so strong was the attack.

"Amrothos," she hissed, clutching her abdomen, "what is in black pudding besides onions?"

Again, the prince pretended that she had not spoken, though she saw a smirk appear on his face.

"Amrothos, this is not funny!" she exclaimed, the beginnings of panic creeping their way into her. Her breathing was shallow, making it difficult to speak. "What did I just eat?"

There was no response. Faint and dizzy, Gúthwyn pushed back her chair and staggered to her feet, wanting nothing more than to regurgitate everything she had consumed. Wiping her moist palms on her dress, she somehow managed to walk towards the head of the table, where her brother was seated with Lothíriel and Imrahil.

"Sister, are you feeling well?" Éomer asked concernedly the instant he set his eyes on her. The chatter at that end of the table stopped short; everyone was looking at her, causing her to sweat under their scrutiny.

Gúthwyn shook her head, her face growing paler by the second. "May I be excused?" she inquired, her voice a trembling whisper. Éomer heard her nevertheless and, seeing her discomfort, said quickly:

"You may."

Turning, Gúthwyn all but ran out of the great hall, hunching over in agony the moment she had reached the safety of the passage leading to her quarters. Her insides were writhing in protest; barely able to see where she was going, she found herself tripping into the walls, fumbling for the door handle in a growing frenzy. When her fingers at last found purchase, she pushed her way into her room.

She did not make it to the chamber pot in time. A violent upheaval occurred within her stomach, and before she knew it she was on all fours, retching profusely. Her vomit was black and she convulsed, gagging even more at the ghastly sight. When she thought she was done, she crawled to the chamber pot and bent in front of it, waiting for the second assault.

Ten minutes later, the waste vessel was almost filled to the brim, the stench permeating throughout the air. Gúthwyn's nose was wrinkled against it, her small frame huddled on the floor in utter misery. Groaning, she attempted to find something to clean up the mess she had made, but cleaning supplies were not kept in her room and she did not think she would be able to journey to where they were stored and back without throwing up.

Just as she was contemplating what she should do, there was a knock on the door. "Sister, is everything all right?" Éomer called. He had been addressing her kindly for days, seeming to consider her punishment enough without the addition of the silent treatment.

"Something I—" Gúthwyn began, and then vomited, almost missing the chamber pot. Immediately the door opened, Éomer making a small exclamation as he narrowly avoided stepping into the puddle of sick.

Humiliated, Gúthwyn ducked her head as he crouched down beside her, his eyes taking in her pale features and the cold sweat that had formed on her brow. "How long have you been feeling ill?" he asked, placing a hand on her forehead. "You do not seem to have the fever…"

"It was something I ate," Gúthwyn managed, though it was difficult to talk through the bile in her mouth. "Black pudding." Just saying the name made her nauseous.

Éomer's eyes widened. "Whatever possessed you to have that?"

"Amrothos," Gúthwyn muttered. "He—"

"Amrothos?" Éomer repeated, his expression suddenly murderous. "Did he tell you it was a delicacy in Dol Amroth?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn said, wondering how her brother would have known that, "but he—"

"I am going to _kill_ that whoreson," Éomer growled. "That was his idea of a little joke. He tricked me into eating that during one of our dinners with King Elessar. You were still in the Houses of Healing, and I never thought it in my best interests to mention the incident… how dare he do the same to you?"

Gúthwyn did not understand why it was important whether or not the meal was considered a delicacy, and told her brother so.

"Do you not know what is in black pudding?" Éomer asked, bewildered by her response.

"Amrothos said there were onions," Gúthwyn replied weakly, wishing she had some water.

"Yes, that is what he told me," Éomer said darkly. "He neglected to inform me, however, that the main ingredients are animal fat and blood!"

Gúthwyn stared at her brother for a horror-struck instant until, realizing what she had just eaten, she lurched towards the chamber pot and retched for a solid minute.

"Shall I send for Halwend?" Éomer questioned worriedly. He had rarely seen her this sick; even in the midst of dreadful fevers, she had usually not vomited so rapidly. "Do you think there was something wrong with the pudding?"

"No," Gúthwyn rasped, holding her stomach. "I cannot… I cannot have meat." The image of herself, bending over to grasp a black carcass in her mouth, rose to the surface of her mind and she gagged again.

"Why not?" Éomer inquired when she had finished, puzzled. "I know you dislike it, but—"

"It makes me throw up," she whispered, "because of… because of Haldor."

There was an uncomfortable silence. "Is this," Éomer at last began, his voice strangled, "from when he forced you to eat?"

Gúthwyn nodded, blinking away the irritating prickling sensation at the corners of her eyes.

"I would have destroyed him, baby sister," Éomer swore, every syllable laced with hatred, "if you had not already given him what he deserved."

It was unspoken between them that in reality, Haldor should have received far worse than the death that had been dealt to him. "He is gone," Gúthwyn instead murmured, shaking her head. "It does not matter anymore."

Éomer's eyes held hers before he stood, surveying her room. "I have to return to the feast," he said, "but I will send for one of the maids to clean this up—"

"I can do it," Gúthwyn interrupted, not wanting Mildwen, Elflede, or Cwene's evening to be ruined by her illness. "If you could—"

"Absolutely not," Éomer cut her off, looking appalled that she would willingly undertake a task so unbefitting for his sister. "You should be in bed," he admonished. "I will find a bucket for you to use. Do you need assistance getting up?"

Not wanting to seem weaker than she already did, Gúthwyn declined and pushed herself to her feet, the action draining more of her energy than it should have. A sudden spell of dizziness came over her and she swayed, her chambers spinning around her. Éomer hastened to steady her, but while she was no longer in danger of falling her lightheadedness did not disappear.

"I am going to _kill_ Amrothos," Éomer vowed once more, helping her to her bed.

"He probably did not know it would make me sick," Gúthwyn mumbled, sinking down onto the mattress and laying her head against the pillows.

"Even so," Éomer spat. "He should never have given it to you! It was one thing for him to have his fun at my expense—it is another thing for him to do so at yours!"

Just hearing about the incident made her nauseous again. Perhaps noticing this, Éomer promised her he would get a bucket and left her chambers, closing the door with more force than was necessary. Gúthwyn curled up into a ball and shut her eyes, wishing her illness to go away. She did not even have the energy to hate Amrothos; more than anything, she just wanted him to leave Edoras and never come back.

When Éomer returned, he set the container at her bedside. "One of the maids will be here soon," he informed her. "Please, send for me if you need anything else."

Gúthwyn nodded weakly, trying to adjust her position so that she was sitting up straighter.

"If you start feeling better, you are more than welcome to join us," Éomer added, putting a hand on her shoulder to prevent her from exerting herself. "But only if you are well, do you understand?"

Again, Gúthwyn nodded. "Thank you," she said.

Éomer bent over and kissed her on the brow. "Take care," he bade her. "Do not hesitate to have someone find me."

Gúthwyn assured him that she would not, though she had little intention of interrupting his dinner a second time, and watched as the room was emptied of his safe presence. Sighing, she turned on her side and attempted to make her breathing perfectly even, hoping that the exercise would quell the nausea still sweeping through her.

She must have dozed off at some point, for when she blinked the floor had been cleaned and she no longer felt as sick as she once had. Wondering how late it was, she gingerly slid out of bed and walked towards the door. Pushing it open a crack, she listened and ascertained that the feast was still going on, for she could hear a multitude of voices and the distinct sound of a fiddle.

_I should go back,_ she thought. It was the polite thing to do; she did not think she would vomit anymore, and she was not even dizzy. While she had no desire to surround herself with the Dol Amroth nobility, she might be able to find Legolas (Cobryn would likely still be debating with the other advisors about sheep bladders or the Valar knew what) and spend some of the evening with him.

Stepping out into the hallway, Gúthwyn was about to enter the throne room when a familiar voice entered her ears.

"Look at her," Lady Míriel sneered contemptuously. For a moment, Éomund's daughter thought that the other woman had noticed her, and she instinctively bristled before realizing that she was still hidden from Lady Míriel's sight.

"_How_ she managed to ensnare a king, I will never know," responded someone whom Gúthwyn recognized to be Lady Aewen.

"Her father must have been pleased with her," Lady Míriel muttered. "After all, there were no prospects for her in Dol Amroth, considering the fact that every man there believed she was no longer a maiden!"

Gúthwyn frowned. They could be discussing no one other than Lothíriel—and just a week ago, she had heard Lord Tulkadan call the queen a whore. _Believed she was no longer a maiden…_ had there been rumors about Lothíriel, just as there now were about her? Lady Míriel did not seem to think they were truthful.

"But why?" someone obviously younger asked, their words quivering with curiosity. Gúthwyn crept forward a few feet and dared to stick her head out, trying to see who it was. Lady Míriel came into view, huddled in the corner of the throne room with Lady Aewen. The person who had spoken looked to be fifteen or so; Gúthwyn thought she might have been Lady Aewen's niece. She was petite and slender, her eyes appearing to sparkle when the light hit it. Otherwise, they looked greedy. "Everyone always calls Lothíriel a whore, but no one ever tells me why!"

"That is because you, my dear, are not of an appropriate age to hear the tale," Lady Aewen replied. "My sister would be most unhappy if I were to relate it to you."

"I see no harm in it," Lady Míriel scoffed. "The sooner she knows about it, the better—then she will have an advantage over her peers, and what could possibly be wrong with that? Gossip, Silivren, is every bit as valuable as money in Dol Amroth. Remember that: anyone can be bought off, but it takes blackmail to hold them to their word."

"No one can blackmail Lothíriel," Lady Aewen pointed out. "She always manages to worm her way out of those situations."

"Yes, well, having Prince Imrahil as your father does come with benefits," Lady Míriel muttered.

"Oh, please, cousin, will you not tell me?" Silivren begged, her beaded grey dress practically shaking in anticipation. "I swear, my mother will learn nothing of this!"

"It _is_ a rather entertaining story," Lady Míriel added, a sly grin appearing on her face.

"You just like hearing about your cleverness," Lady Aewen retorted, though she was visibly relenting. "I suppose it would be best for you to speak, because you were closer friends with Lothíriel than the rest of us…"

"You and Lothíriel were companions?" Silivren asked, her eyes widening in shock. "I thought you hated her!"

"Oh, rest assured that I never actually cared for her," Lady Míriel replied, "but I am getting rather ahead of myself. Now, before I begin, if Lothíriel or her father happen to glance over at us, we are to be seen discussing our ribbons. I will not give Imrahil reason to banish me from court again."

Silivren nodded eagerly, looking as though her wildest dreams had come true. Gúthwyn found that she had inched nearer to the trio, all the while keeping herself hidden behind a pile of brooms that one of the maids had quickly stashed in the corner in their haste to get to the feast.

"Lothíriel's story is a rather sad one," Lady Míriel began, a wicked gleam in her eyes, "and it all started when she came to court at too young an age…"


	104. Tales of the Court

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Four:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.  
**Note:** Amarië was taken from _The Silmarillion_, because the name of Elphir's wife is unknown.

Chapter One Hundred and Four

"Unfortunately for Lothíriel," Lady Míriel said with a smirk, "from the date of her birth no one outside of her family ever really considered her of much importance. She had no chance of getting to the throne, and once she came of age everyone knew that she would be married off to some distant ruler in exchange for an alliance. Prince Imrahil kept her sequestered from the court until she was twelve, namely because it is quite a dangerous ocean to navigate—especially so, if you are a princess."

Gúthwyn stepped as close to Lady Míriel, Lady Aewen, and Silivren as was possible without revealing her hiding spot, eagerly absorbing every word that was being spoken.

"Up until that time, she was always in her father's library studying." Lady Míriel snorted. "Studying! What good would that ever be at court? What Prince Imrahil was thinking… well, after he chose to concentrate on her education, it was natural that she had few companions. Actually, I am not sure whether she had any friends. In any case, she was generally not out in public—not that any of the ladies minded, for we were too busy attempting to catch the eyes of her brothers."

"And rarely succeeding," Lady Aewen pointed out.

"Details," Lady Míriel said carelessly. "Now, when Lothíriel was brought to court so early in her life, rumor had it that her mind rivaled that of her father's advisors, but this was very quickly proven to be wrong. Her knowledge of society was abysmal, and her talents at conversing very lacking. To be fair, she was a passable dancer, but this grace was insignificant when one looked at the rest of her disposition.

"Few of the women, therefore, cared to strengthen their acquaintances with her. The standard niceties were always performed in her presence, of course, though for the most part everyone simply mocked her behind her back. I was the only one who realized the uses Lothíriel could be put to, and rather than wait for someone else to come to their senses I took her under my wing."

Here Lady Míriel laughed, as if recalling some sort of amusement. "She was so relieved to finally have a friend that I daresay she would have done anything I asked, which I knew fully well but did not wish to press my advantage too quickly. After all, I had set my sights on a prize that would take much skill to catch: Prince Elphir, heir to the throne."

"I remember that," Lady Aewen reminisced. "You used to spend all your days pining after him."

"The crown, not the man," Lady Míriel said sharply. "I had, and have, no idea what he was like. He spent most of his days in his study or out on the field. The few times he came to court were when his father required his presence, and then he would only dance with Lothíriel. I daresay he hated the lot of us."

"He thought us shallow," Lady Aewen informed her cousin. "I once overheard him remarking to Erchirion that we (meaning us women to whom he had just been speaking) were the most vapid creatures he had ever had the misfortune to encounter."

"How ghastly!" Silivren could not stop herself from exclaiming.

Gúthwyn felt her respect for Elphir increase rather significantly.

"Well, as I was saying," Lady Míriel continued, "I was determined to marry him, and Lothíriel was my means of doing so. I was responsible for every single friend she acquired before she turned fifteen. I knew all of her secrets. She confided in me alone, sharing with me her silly fears—'Oh, I have always been terrified of tripping on one of these gowns and falling flat on my face!'—and her desires."

"Such as your husband," Lady Aewen interjected.

Both Gúthwyn and Silivren's eyes turned as wide as dinner plates.

"Y-Your husband?" Silivren echoed, looking shocked. "Y-You mean, Lord Tulkadan?"

"The same," Lady Míriel confirmed. "Aewen, do refrain from cutting corners, I rather wish to draw the story of Lothíriel's downfall as far out as possible."

"Yes, but she has been looking over here for the past minute," Lady Aewen muttered.

Lady Míriel sighed. "So uncannily suspicious, she is. And yes, Silivren, that woman was absolutely enchanted by Tulkadan. He was very charming, I must admit—and handsome, too. He soon became her most fervent admirer. Naturally, he was discreet about his affections; Imrahil never seemed to like him as much as his father, who was responsible for his appointment to the royal council. But I know Tulkadan was aware of how much Lothíriel's dowry was worth, and that was why he persisted in courting her."

"He actually hated her," Lady Aewen confided in Silivren.

"Yes, yes, but her status was unparalleled," Lady Míriel said breezily. "And all men are lustful creatures by nature. She was somewhat well-off in looks, so it is not impossible that he thought she would be a most satisfying addition to his bed."

Gúthwyn shuddered at this cold-hearted speech. She had always loathed Lord Tulkadan, but never as much as she did now.

"Why did he hate her?" Silivren wanted to know.

"Oh, she was too strong-willed for his tastes," Lady Míriel replied. "Tulkadan did not like the fact that she was educated—as he told me later, that might give her the impression that she was her husband's equal! Furthermore, he had had a number of quarrels with Elphir and that hot-tempered Amrothos, so he was not inclined to look favorably upon her. All he ever wanted out of Lothíriel was her dowry and his own pleasure. I believe he imagined being the one to take her virginity would be an excellent means of revenge on her brothers, who absolutely despised him."

_By the Valar,_ Gúthwyn thought, feeling sick. _These people are horrible!_

"Frankly, it does not matter what his reasoning was," Lady Míriel conceded, "for he courted her nevertheless, and Lothíriel was utterly swayed by him. She used to have me arrange meetings with him in the gardens, a request I was all too happy to oblige—thinking, of course, that such assistance would be reciprocated in the future."

"Her father let her wander off on her own with Lord Tulkadan?" Silivren asked, horrified.

"No, no, no, use your head, you stupid little girl! Lothíriel and I would stroll together along a path, and at some point during our walk we would just so happen to encounter Lord Tulkadan and a friend. I always favored Tulkadan's companion, and that left little choice to Lothíriel other than to accept the lord's proffered arm. Sooner or later, I would grow tired, and beg my escort to let us sit down for a moment. Lothíriel and Tulkadan would offer to remain with us, but like the friend that I am I would never wish for their exercise to be interrupted by my frailty. Aewen, have you taught this girl nothing?"

"I have very few opportunities to do so," Lady Aewen sniffed. "Her mother does not wish her a recurring presence at court, much to my chagrin."

"And mine," Silivren added darkly, her cheeks flushed at Lady Míriel's reprimand.

"She is a fool," Lady Míriel snapped. "If one is away from court for too long, it is difficult to maintain any sort of control over their position. I will send for you, Silivren, if she tarries often."

"Thank you, my lady," Silivren murmured, struggling to conceal the glee on her features.

"Go on," Lady Aewen urged her friend delicately.

"Ah, yes," Lady Míriel agreed. "So, Lothíriel was in love with Tulkadan, but she did not fail to notice that I had yet to confess to her the name of the man I desired. I withheld his identity for several months, always declaring myself too embarrassed to divulge it. She pleaded with me to tell her, often saying that she would help me attract his attention if I would but trust her."

Lady Aewen snorted. "As if she knew anything about ensnaring a man!" she scoffed derisively. "None of them would ever look at her if she were not Prince Imrahil's daughter."

"Yes, in most cases she would have been more of a hindrance than a help," Lady Míriel affirmed. "But what I needed from her was the connection to Prince Elphir, and her preference for me—the rest I could do on my own. And so, eventually I confided in her that my heart lay with her brother. I must say, my acting was impeccable; she hastened to assure me that I need not feel ashamed, that she would introduce me to Elphir."

Here Lady Míriel laughed. "Not once did she ever suspect me of using her for my own designs. She and Elphir were remarkably close to each other: he always brought her presents from his travels, entertained her with stories, and unlike the younger brothers he encouraged her education. (They, on the other hand, could not have cared less either way. Even then, Amrothos was too busy enjoying himself at the local taverns to pay much attention to his sister's doings.)"

"That man is reprehensible," Lady Aewen sneered. "I cannot even begin to understand why his father has not yet banished him from court. He disgraces us all with his presence."

"Yes, well, it seems he has found a match in Éomer's wench of a sister," Lady Míriel tittered. "With their ways, the two of them are quite suited for each other. In any case, as I was saying, once I had the power of Lothíriel's favor Elphir was more willing to welcome me into his social circle."

_I bet he was only being polite,_ Gúthwyn thought savagely, disgusted by the scheming woman before her.

"Unfortunately, Elphir never showed any signs of interest in me," Lady Míriel said bitterly. "By that point, his future wife, Amarië, had arrived at court, and he was so in love with her that he could not bear to be in the company of another woman. Needless to say, it was not in my interests to let such preference continue. I conspired against her, I will admit it; with several well-timed whispers, I alienated Lothíriel from her, and similar rumors took care of the other ladies. It was not difficult: everyone envied her already, and such emotions are oft readily turned to hatred.

"I regret to say, however, that I underestimated the power of a conscience. Mine had deserted me long ago"—Lady Míriel snorted, as if to say good riddance—"and I forgot to take into account that Lothíriel still had one. Amarië always been kind to her, despite Lothíriel's coldness, and as time went on my little friend began to wonder why she was treating her brother's love so harshly. We had a small argument about the matter and she then told Elphir that I was responsible for spreading the rumors, at which point he denounced me and shortly thereafter married that wretch."

"Well, she got her comeuppance in the end," Lady Aewen reminded Lord Tulkadan's wife, who had a very ugly scowl on her face.

For a moment, Gúthwyn thought she was going to vomit again. Elphir's spouse had died in childbirth—and these women thought she _deserved_ it?

"Yes, she did," Lady Míriel acknowledged, the ghost of a grin flitting across her features. "Serves her right, for meddling with someone of such higher ranking."

"Did you and Lothíriel remain friends afterwards?" Silivren inquired.

"I made my amends with her," Lady Míriel replied, "solely for the connection to the royal family, but I never forgave her for caving in and telling Elphir about my doings against Amarië, and I was determined to have my revenge. After spending some time debating how I should go about this activity, I finally decided to hurt her in the most brutal way possible: through Tulkadan.

"I had lost Elphir, but by no means were my prospects limited. And in those days, Tulkadan was second only to the princes in terms of a fine catch. He stood to inherit enormous sums of money from his father, his good looks were renowned throughout the court, and he was an excellent dancer. He still is, as a matter of fact. Lothíriel was not alone in her admiration for him.

"I knew Tulkadan would never so much glance in my direction while he had a chance at a princess, so I set about tarnishing Lothíriel's reputation. The one thing a man does not want to hear, Silivren, is that his love has been unfaithful to him—and a rumor or two will take care of that."

"But would Elphir and Lothíriel not realize that you were the one doing it?" Silivren asked, looking awed by Lady Míriel's daring.

"Not at all!" exclaimed Lady Míriel in an injured tone. "I have more tact than that. After I learned that Lothíriel was not to be trusted, I refrained from gossiping in her presence, and of course Elphir preferred to place as many people between us as possible. Thus, I was able to work undetected for quite some time.

"Now, Lothíriel's old tutor had passed away a year or two ago, and she was currently being taught by a far younger (and reasonably handsome) man named Tegilbor. Once a rift grew between us, she began spending most of her time with him, and while I doubt either of them ever had a romantic thought about each other, she made it only too easy for me to implicate them as lovers."

Gúthwyn could hardly believe what she was hearing. Lady Míriel was, without a doubt, the lowest, most cowardly woman she had ever met in her entire life. Words could not describe how repulsive a being she was.

"The whole court soon agreed that this must be the case, for Lothíriel and Tegilbor were seen speaking with each other outside of their father's study, and many a walk did they take together. If truth must be told I believe they were simply close friends, and that Tegilbor was the only man who ever liked Lothíriel for who she was… but, of course, I saw no reason to correct the impressions of those who saw them!"

"And it did not help matters that he kept giving her presents," Lady Aewen added significantly.

"Oh, those were books," Lady Míriel said dismissively. "She loved to read, and he obtained for her several volumes that were not considered appropriate for a woman of her status to own. As you can imagine, however, even the fact that his gifts were strictly platonic did nothing to help their position, and the only reason no one ever accused her of consorting with him was because of her father."

"It is best not to gossip in Prince Imrahil's presence," Lady Aewen advised Silivren, "for he is most intolerant of it… he believes that spreading rumors is not an honest way to conquer your opponent."

"It may not be honest," Lady Míriel said, "but it works, as his daughter should know fully well. Before long, the entire court whispered whenever she passed, went out of their way to avoid her, and were downright cruel to her tutor. Prince Imrahil was aware that something had happened to alienate the people from Lothíriel, yet while I doubt I was wholly innocent in his eyes he had no reason to suspect my involvement. And all the while I fed the rumors, exaggerating an incident here, creating a fictional one there…"

The tale Lady Míriel was recounting reminded Gúthwyn sharply of her own situation, with Lothíriel spinning a web of lies and gossip about her so-called affairs with the men. As she listened to the story of the queen and Tegilbor, who was beginning to look rather like Cobryn in her mind's eye, she found the similarities increasingly disturbing.

"It was almost pathetic, how easy my job was. The summer before she turned fifteen, for instance, she was bedridden with a fever—'Well, that is what she says,' I would tell my companions—and Tegilbor was given permission to tutor her in her rooms. Imrahil believed that a maid supervised them, but I discovered that this woman had a fondness for jewelry, and in exchange for some of my lesser trinkets was all too willing to make a show of leaving the princess's chambers. The maid needed to be gone for only a few minutes for the gossip to run wild. When questioned by Imrahil, she simply said that she was retrieving cleaning supplies."

"I remember that!" Lady Aewen crowed. "The two of them hardly even noticed that she was gone, so absorbed were they in their 'studies.'"

"As you can imagine," Lady Míriel addressed Silivren, "Tulkadan began having doubts concerning Lothíriel's purity. He was reluctant to express them, however, for he did not wish to offend Imrahil and ruin his chances of marrying a princess. Even so, Lothíriel noticed that his manner towards her was considerably cooler, and she confessed to me—she still thought me a friend!—that she was miserable because of it. 'Do you know why, Míriel?' she would ask me. 'Do you think he believes those horrible rumors?' I, naturally, always assured her otherwise."

"How did she find out that it was you?" Silivren asked, looking at Lady Míriel with open admiration.

"Be patient, I am getting there," Lady Míriel said. "Now, there came a time when I decided that the final nail in the coffin, so to speak, was necessary to end Tulkadan's involvement with Lothíriel entirely. Such a plan would require all of my cunning, and a sizeable amount of chance. However, I have always considered myself a fortunate person, and I was content to wait until the opportunity came along.

"As Lothíriel had, very stupidly, very foolishly, once admitted to me, it was an unlucky fact that the princess had not yet started her courses. This was a delicate piece of information, forbidden to be relayed to the general public, for it was a bad omen for her to be so late. An old superstition, but there you have it. Lothíriel brooded over this constantly, afraid that she would not be able to bear children, afraid that Lord Tulkadan would turn her away if he ever found out."

"And you told him?" Silivren guessed.

"Not at all, that would be a betrayal of dear Lothíriel's trust," Lady Míriel replied. "Instead, my maid was told to keep a close watch on the princess's sheets, and to ensure that she was the one given the task of cleaning them."

Here Lady Míriel grinned, and with a sinking feeling Gúthwyn thought she knew what the horrible woman in front of her had done.

"By the greatest stroke of luck," Lady Míriel continued, "my maid happened to be the only one present in Lothíriel's chambers when the princess discovered that, on her fifteenth birthday, she had finally gotten her courses. My maid delivered the sheets to me, as I had requested, and thankfully, the mess was nothing terribly drastic.

"I then turned my prize over to one of my more regrettable acquaintances, a cousin with connections in the local taverns. He never knew to whom it belonged, for he was so drunk when I gave it to him that he could barely comprehend my instructions. But thankfully, he managed to…" She coughed discreetly. "When I relieved it of him, Lothíriel was no longer the only person whose fluids had stained the fabric."

"By the Valar!" Silivren exclaimed, her cheeks scarlet. "How did you ever manage to do such a thing without losing your nerve?"

"It was a very shady business," Lady Míriel admitted, "but I had everything to gain from its completion, did I not?"

"What did you do then?" Silivren pressed, the expression on her face like one who is watching something hideous unfold and yet cannot stop doing so.

"The next morning, one of Tulkadan's servants handed him a package that had been left at his door. Along with Lothíriel's sheet was a note (in completely unrecognizable script, I had used my other hand) that said:

"_Tegilbor was seen entering Princess Lothíriel's chambers last night, alone and with no studying materials in sight. This sheet is the result of what happened._"

All of a sudden, Gúthwyn remembered being sent to the washing circles with Lothíriel's laundry, and the appalled looks on the other women's faces when she had been seen with the evidence of her brother and his wife's love-making. _It was Lady Míriel's idea,_ she realized with a start. Lothíriel had not thought of the ruse on her own: she was the pupil copying the master, clumsily executing what her predecessor had performed effortlessly.

"I must say," Lady Míriel spoke then, "even _I_ was surprised by how much my scheming had paid off. I knew that by calling the maid to my side Lothíriel had no supervision with her during the time Tegilbor supposedly visited her; I knew Tulkadan's temper, and that he would not bear the insult quietly. But, as you will recall, Aewen, the man stormed into court and demanded an explanation from Prince Imrahil in front of everyone!"

"That was the only time I have ever seen Lothíriel cry," Lady Aewen reminisced. "It was a rather pathetic sight."

Gúthwyn had never thought that she could feel sympathy for the queen, but after hearing of how she had been ensnared by the trap of Lady Míriel's malice she could not help but let go of the greater part of her animosity towards Lothíriel. No one deserved to be accused so publicly of a crime they did not commit. There could be no recovering from such a scandal, not amongst the Dol Amroth crowd.

"She cried?" Silivren demanded.

"Yes, right after Tulkadan said something along the lines of, 'I have never been so disgusted in my entire life,'" Lady Míriel answered, laughing. "Imrahil was furious, I do not think he realized that she had just started her monthly bleeding. Do you remember how he summoned both her and Tegilbor to his chambers and interrogated them for hours?"

Lady Aewen, to whom the question had been directed, nodded. "Once Lothíriel told him that she had had her courses, however, he was quick to figure out that someone had set her up."

"Yet when he confronted the maids, naturally none of them confessed," Lady Míriel continued. "For all of the clothes and blankets are put into a pile in the middle of the washing room, and it would be impossible to prove who cleaned which garment, since none of them ever remember. Thus, Imrahil had no choice but to fire every last one of them. I paid my maid well for her silence and saw to it that she found employment elsewhere, although my hand in the matter was concealed."

"What about Tegilbor?" Silivren inquired. "I have not seen him; was he banished from court?"

The two women before her exchanged dark glances.

"Well," Lady Míriel began, "most of the nobility believed Lothíriel to be a whore, but the commoners loved the princess (she used to talk to them in the streets, and several times she emptied her purse to help feed their children), and they thought Tegilbor had raped her. While Imrahil was convinced of Tegilbor's innocence, he was nevertheless forced to hire a new tutor for Lothíriel, which made Tegilbor even guiltier in the peasants' eyes.

"One evening, when Tegilbor was going to the bookshop, he was surrounded by a mob of angry commoners and murdered."

Gúthwyn gasped; luckily, at the same exact moment Silivren cried out in shock. She was quickly shushed by Lady Míriel.

"Quiet, we cannot be overheard discussing this!"

"Th-They murdered him?" Silivren whispered, horrified.

"Yes," Lady Aewen confirmed grimly. "And according to witnesses, they took their time torturing him before they beheaded him."

"They were all drunk," Lady Míriel snorted contemptuously. "Nevertheless, they managed to scalp him"—she shuddered—"disembowel him"—Gúthwyn clutched at her stomach and nearly threw up—"and finally rid him of his manhood before they killed him."

"Míriel!" Lady Aewen hissed, her face pale. "My sister will be furious—"

"Not a word," Lady Míriel ordered Silivren, who was trembling. "If you tell anyone about this, you shall never have a place at court, and I will see to it that you do not find a suitable husband. _Do you understand me?_"

Silivren nodded, openly afraid of Lady Míriel. "W-What happened to the murderers?" she managed.

"They were hanged," Lady Aewen informed her, glaring at Lady Míriel. "Just like they deserved."

"Lothíriel did not lift a finger to lessen their sentence, which she could have done," Lady Míriel added, ignoring the angry stare from her friend. "Many, Imrahil included, were ready to end the bloodshed, to forget that all of this had ever happened. Yet Lothíriel insisted that they be put to death, and spurned the pleas of their relatives to spare them. And in the end, her father was bound by duty to do as she wanted. From that day on, Lothíriel abhorred all of the peasants—you may not have noticed her animosity towards them, for you are rarely in the city—and they hated her for sending their fathers, brothers, and husbands to the gallows."

"Did she ever realize that it was you?" Silivren asked. Gúthwyn felt a rush of loathing, that one woman's conniving schemes could have gone so far as to take an innocent man's life.

"Surprisingly, she did not put two and two together until I married Tulkadan," Lady Míriel answered. "Part of her still loved him, though he refused to be in the same room with her after the whole incident. And when I, who had never before shown even the remotest flicker of interest in him, became his wife, she finally figured out that I had manipulated her all along, and that I had been responsible for sabotaging her relationship with Tulkadan."

Lady Míriel giggled, and Gúthwyn thought that she had never met a fouler creature in her entire life.

"She asked me why, if you can believe it. 'Míriel, I thought you were my friend!'" Lady Aewen and Silivren laughed as the other woman mimicked Lothíriel's hurt tone, keeping her voice down so that it would not attract the attention of anyone else. "I confess," Lady Míriel murmured, sobering, "I was too bold. For once, I told her the truth: that no one at court had ever liked her, that the sole reason the ladies pretended to be friends with her was because they hoped to marry her brothers. I even revealed to her that Tulkadan had never desired her, that he had seen only her dowry and a way of getting revenge on Elphir.

"I was foolish, I admit. I was careless. I thought myself untouchable; I laughed to think of what pitiful means of vengeance Lothíriel might devise, she who had no knowledge of the court. But that little whore went straight to her father and repeated the entire conversation, which was enough to ban me from court for three years. Tulkadan was also removed from Imrahil's council; we were both exiled from society and forced to live with my mother."

Lady Aewen made a noise of sympathy.

"Wretched woman," Lady Míriel hissed. Gúthwyn was not sure if she meant her mother or Lothíriel. "By the time I was able to return, Lothíriel had used a combination of flattery, bribery, and even blackmail to gain control over the court. I was shunned by everyone, for they feared to be seen with someone the princess hated. Tulkadan was disgraced; his old friends turned on him, not wanting Imrahil to think that they still consorted with him.

"In the end, it did not matter. Lothíriel married someone in a distant land, as I knew she would, and once she was gone the women of the court were freed from her dominion. Very quickly I rose back to prominence, something she was informed of but could do nothing about. And even now, though I am ignored when she is in the room, I am still the true ruler of the court. It has been amusing, to watch the young ladies squirm between us, not wishing to be disliked by the royal family and yet fully aware that I have the power to make their lives miserable at home."

"Always so modest," Lady Aewen smirked, "and… oh, Míriel, _do_ tell me where you bought that ribbon, it is simply gorgeous!"

"Yes, please, I must ask my mother to get me some." Silivren was quick on the uptake; Gúthwyn was not, and it took her a few seconds to understand why they had changed the topic so swiftly. A group of raucous Rohirrim had settled down at a nearby table, toasting each other and laughing loudly about some jest that had recently occurred.

Éomund's daughter had had enough. All thoughts of returning to the feast gone, she turned around and went back to her chambers, closing the door firmly behind her. Crossing the room, she slowly sat down on her bed, sinking under the weight of all that she had just heard.

She could not even begin to comprehend leading so evil a life as Lady Míriel's. Compared to her, Lothíriel was a novice in the art of ruining reputations, her designs on Gúthwyn amateur at best. To have caused a man's death and to hold no remorse—nay, to have _laughed_ at it—was the mark of a monster, not a woman of the court.

Imagining Cobryn being the one who had been killed in such a savage manner, Gúthwyn shivered, not for the first time thanking the Valar that she did not live in Dol Amroth. Now she knew why Lothíriel despised commoners, why she never made the slightest effort to win over the people of Rohan: she feared them, recalling all too well the death of Tegilbor.

Gúthwyn wondered if Éomer knew about his wife's past, if Lothíriel had confessed to him the scandal that had nearly destroyed her. A gut instinct told her _no_, that she was not the only member of the king's family hiding secrets from him. If such a terrible thing had happened to her… if the faceless, looming shadow that was her eventual husband had any reason to doubt her purity…

All of a sudden, she felt very small and miserable, as though too great a burden had been placed on her shoulders. She had no intention of relaying Lady Míriel's tale to anyone but Cobryn, in whom she had the utmost faith; yet even after confiding in him she knew that the story would continue to haunt her. Lothíriel had done nothing to deserve her treatment at Lady Míriel's hands, save to expose the woman when her lies threatened to damage the reputation of another's. Because of this, she had been ruined, her best friend murdered and her bond with the people severed.

More than anything, Gúthwyn wanted the delegation of Dol Amroth to leave. She could safely say that she had never encountered a more self-absorbed, ruthless group of humans in her life. As much as she liked Prince Imrahil, she could not possibly hate his subjects more. It made her sick to think of how Lady Míriel had been utterly unconcerned with the death of Lothíriel's tutor, how she had found anything remotely amusing about it. The poor man had been killed in cold blood for a crime he did not commit, and had died in a way that made her feel queasy just imagining it.

Now shivering, Gúthwyn pulled the covers back and climbed into bed, fully aware that she would never find sleep. She could not erase the images of Lothíriel sobbing when the man she loved denounced her, of Tegilbor falling beneath a crowd of furious peasants, of the offenders being hanged before their princess's cold, unforgiving eyes.

For the first time in her life, Éomund's daughter realized that she was not so different from the queen after all. Both of them had been mocked by the court; both of them had been accused of actions that went strictly against their morals. They knew what it was to have the love of the commoners, and then to have that love sullied by rumors. The only difference was that Lothíriel had learned to control her circumstances, while Gúthwyn was still very much a victim of her rival's malice.

It frightened her how Lothíriel seemed to be tightening the same noose around Gúthwyn that Lady Míriel had around Dol Amroth's princess. Just as Lady Míriel had done to her, Lothíriel had framed Gúthwyn with a soiled sheet; she had spread rumors about her and Cobryn, implicating them in an illicit relationship. Cobryn was not her tutor, but she went to him often for advice, and he was one of her closest friends.

Through all of this, however, there still remained the question of why. Why was Lothíriel targeting her, when she had done nothing to the queen besides beating her at sparring practice? That was not such an offense that a reasonable person would set about destroying her reputation in retaliation. And what would her brother's wife stoop to, if Lady Míriel had used such brutal tactics?

Éomund's daughter wondered at this until the early hours of the morning, for once not daring to seek comfort under the stars. It was a mark of the effect Lothíriel's past had on her that she would rather remain in the safety of her room than venture outside, where every step away from her chambers would take her closer to the people who had made a young girl's life nothing short of hell.


	105. Flower Necklaces

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Five:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Five**

"How are you feeling?" Éomer asked Gúthwyn immediately when she joined the table for lunch the next day, her face pale from lack of sleep and her mind buzzing with thoughts of what she had overheard the night before.

"Fine," she replied automatically, her eyes darting to Lothíriel. Though she had not expected the queen to look any different after acquiring new knowledge about her past, she was astounded that her brother's wife could sit so serenely in her home with a pack of wolves camped outside.

"Lady Gúthwyn, I am so sorry for my son's conduct," Prince Imrahil addressed her, on the other side of Lothíriel. "Rest assured that he will be apologizing to you personally, once he is informed that you are awake."

Éomund's daughter inclined her head, for while the politest course of action would have been to protest and say that Amrothos's atonement was unnecessary, she remembered all too well what he had done to her and was in no mood to let him off so easily.

"What would you like to eat?" Éomer asked then, gesturing at the wide array of dishes he and the others had been dining from. "Shall I send to the kitchens for something else?"

Heartily sick of being fussed over, Gúthwyn answered quietly, "Will you pass the stew, please?"

Éomer obliged, but after she had ladled some of it onto a plate one of the servants brought over she was distracted by Haiweth entering the throne room. Gúthwyn greeted her happily when she reached their table, and after being invited by Éomer to sit down the girl did so nervously, clearly awed in the presences of Imrahil and Lothíriel.

"Have you already eaten?" Gúthwyn asked her.

Haiweth nodded, looking anxiously at Prince Imrahil.

"He does not bite," Gúthwyn whispered with a smile. Recently, Haiweth had grown uncomfortable with adults she did not see on a regular basis. While she was still remarkably outgoing with children, she retreated into a shell in the presence of grown-ups.

At Gúthwyn's remark, Haiweth jumped and laughed a little, but was quelled instantaneously when the others looked at her.

"Sister, what are your plans for today?" Éomer inquired, more to stop Haiweth's face from turning redder than anything.

"I am going to visit Tun," Gúthwyn responded, sighing. "He is healing as quickly as can be expected, but he despairs that he still cannot get out of bed without great pain."

_Something else Amrothos is to be thanked for,_ she thought savagely. She hated to see her champion in such agony, knowing all too well what it felt like to be confined to one's room.

"Send him my regards," Éomer bade her, and she promised that she would.

The rest of the meal passed without incident, though Gúthwyn was only able to swallow a small amount of broth before she felt queasy and was forced to desist. Éomer, she knew, was not pleased by this; _no matter,_ she thought irritably, tired of him watching like a hawk every morsel that she put into her mouth.

After the servants had cleared away the dishes, Gúthwyn and Haiweth rose, the former to visit her champion and the latter to return to her games with the other children. They left the Golden Hall together and then separated, Gúthwyn continuing down the street until she reached Tun's house.

"My lady," Brithwen acknowledged her when she answered the door, resolutely determined not to address Éomund's daughter by her first name. It was either out of respect or discomfort; Gúthwyn had a slight suspicion that propriety had very little to do with the matter.

"Brithwen," Gúthwyn replied, offering a smile and inclining her head. "How is he?"

"Better," Brithwen answered. "He was able to sit up today."

Gúthwyn grinned at this. "It does not strain him?"

"Somewhat," Brithwen admitted, "but it is an improvement. Please, come in."

She stood aside and Gúthwyn stepped over the threshold, as always admiring how clean and tidy their home was. Brithwen led her to their bedroom, opening the door to reveal Tun, propped up against several pillows and looking rather woebegone. Instead of his uniform, her champion's body was ensconced in numerous casts and slings. His every motion was accompanied by a grimace, try though he might to hide it.

"My lady," he murmured when he caught sight of Gúthwyn. He did not attempt to bow, as he—much to her horror—had done on her first visit, but she could tell that he was struggling against the impulse.

"How are you?" was Gúthwyn's response as she sat down in the chair at his side. Brithwen had retreated to the outer room, though her position at the table was such that she could easily see her husband.

"I am doing well," Tun assured her. "I just wish I could go to the training grounds—I shall be a laughingstock when I return if I have not practiced in a month."

"The others will understand," Gúthwyn promised. "They will not expect your best after an injury. You are lucky you survived that fall."

She could not help but shudder at the thought of what might have happened if he had differently, if he had sustained worse damage than what was now slowly on the way to recovery.

"I did, thanks to you and my uncle," Tun said quietly. "I am in debt to both of you."

Gúthwyn shook her head. "Consider us even," she told him. "If it were not for you, I would not have stayed at Meduseld when I… when I returned from Mordor."

Indeed, if it were not for her being so surprised at the reappearance and sworn loyalty of a childhood friend, she would have fought her way out of her own home after her reveal, humiliated by what she might be forced to divulge about her captivity otherwise and furious with Théoden for letting her become a slave in the first place. Tun was the only reason why she had remained, the sole person responsible for the path she had ultimately chosen.

"My lady," Tun began hesitantly, "what was… what was it like there?"

Gúthwyn's eyes widened in surprise. Tun had never asked her about Mordor or Isengard before. Like the rest of the Eorlingas, he simply accepted the fact that she was back, and that as long as she was unaffected by her past there was no reason to mention it. They felt they hardly had the right to inquire.

"Forgive me," Tun said swiftly when she was silent for some time. His head bowed in embarrassment. "I should not have been so bold."

"Nay, you were not," Gúthwyn automatically responded. "It… It was horrible."

She sighed, willing herself not to think of the few good things about those years. "We trained from dawn to dark almost every day," she informed her champion, a shiver coming over her despite the warmth of the afternoon, "and I was always worried about Hammel and Haiweth."

"And the men?" Tun questioned, a tortured expression on his face. "None of them harmed you?"

Gúthwyn swallowed. "There were sometimes accidents during practice," she allowed. "It was unavoidable."

"That is not what I meant," Tun said, his voice so low that it was almost a whisper. "My lady… I have never believed the rumors, I swear to you, and I have always silenced those who dare to utter those falsities..."

"The rumors about my being a whore?" Gúthwyn clarified, a flush of shame creeping over her features.

"I know you would never do such a thing," Tun vowed, for a moment looking as though he were about to take her hand, "but the nobles from Dol Amroth speak of it so often that I am afraid… I wonder if there is some truth to the gossip, and that you were… that you were forced…"

Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat. In addition to the tales swirling around about her escapades with the Riders, a number of the delegation were also convinced that she had performed several services in her absence from Rohan, which as a rule was not discussed with outsiders.

"Tun, you need not worry," she said, touched by his concern. "I was never… no man…"

She saw Haldor's face before her, his eyes burning holes into her own before he disappeared again.

"Thank the Valar," Tun breathed, his voice low so that Brithwen could not hear. "I have been meaning to inquire when we were alone, yet I…" His face turned pale. "My lady, I pray that you do not think I was prying. I only feared for you… those nobles, every day they said horrible things about you…"

Gúthwyn's blood boiled, but her anger was not directed towards her champion. "Tun, you should not hesitate to ask me about anything. I will never begrudge you that, I promise. And… thank you for defending me."

Tun nodded and then coughed, the small movement causing his features to contort in pain.

"Would you like to lie back down?" Gúthwyn asked concernedly, when he kept massaging his ribs long after the spasm passed.

"No, I will be fine," he said weakly. "How are you, my lady?"

The question was so earnest that she almost laughed. "You are trying to distract me," she accused him. "I am well, but you are not—is there anything I can get you?"

Tun chuckled a little. "No, thank you," he replied. "Please, my lady, you should not…" He trailed off.

"Should not what?" Gúthwyn wanted to know, confused.

"You should not go out of your way to help me," he muttered, coloring. "I appreciate it, but it is not ne—"

"Of course it is!" Gúthwyn cut him off. "Tun, you are my friend; I cannot stand aside and watch you suffer. What sort of person would I be if I did?"

_A true woman of your status,_ a contemptuous part of her sneered. _Just like Lady Míriel._

"I do not wish to keep you busy," Tun whispered, a protest he made every single time she came to visit. Gúthwyn knew he did not truly want her gone; with the exception of his wife and Erkenbrand, she was one of the few who regularly sat with him, for the men at the training grounds were often busy with their own duties and families.

"I am not busy," Gúthwyn said, "but if I were, I would still make time to see you. Now, please," she continued, for he had opened his mouth, "do not trouble yourself any further. How is your shoulder?"

Sighing, Tun answered, "It is sore, though much better off than the rest of my body. And yours, my lady?"

She giggled at this, hardly daring to believe that he had just made a joke in her presence. "Same as usual, thank you for your concern."

"Did you enjoy the feast last night?" Tun questioned, pleased by her reaction. "Erkenbrand said that he did not see you."

Gúthwyn's cheeks turned an interesting shade of red. "I was indisposed for most of the night," she admitted. "Amrothos convinced me to have black pudding."

"Black pudding?" Tun repeated, puzzled. "What is that?"

"As I found out after eating it, some idiot thought it would be an excellent idea to make a dish out of blood and animal fat," Gúthwyn said scathingly. "The whole travesty was Amrothos's idea of a joke."

Tun's mouth dropped open in disgust. "I will kill him," he growled, actually bracing himself on the bed as though he were about to swing his legs over the side.

"Do not move," Gúthwyn ordered, holding out a hand to stop him. "In any case, you shall have to get in line behind Éomer, for last I heard he was planning something similar."

Tun smiled at this. "Good," he said, but then his fists clenched again. "When does that bastard leave?"

"Six days," replied Gúthwyn, who had been counting them down ever since the tournament.

Tun swore under his breath. "I shall still be in bed by then!" He struggled to prop himself up further, but failed and cursed once more. "How dare he treat you so despicably?"

Tun's outrage on her behalf was such that, if Gúthwyn had confided in him the way Amrothos had been behaving around her the rest of the month, she had no doubt that he would have attempted to slay the prince that very day, regardless of how much he strained his injuries.

"It seems that, for all of the nobility's insistence on decorum and propriety, their prince is hardly a role model for such deportment," Gúthwyn spoke, her eyes narrowed in distaste. "They accuse me of servicing the men, and yet he makes no secret of the fact that he is a regular patron of taverns and pays many a woman for their company."

"I wonder that Queen Lothíriel could have come from a court of such terrible people, when she has none of their spite," Tun mused. Gúthwyn knew he had no idea what Lothíriel was really like—none of the Eorlingas did, but so long as her actions were not malignant they assumed that she was a benevolent ruler. Only the elderly women, shrewder than most at discerning where the rumors concerning Éomund's daughter had come from, frowned in silence at her conduct.

"My brother has excellent taste," was all she said. "Lothíriel is certainly both kind and beautiful."

"I will not deny that she is," Tun agreed earnestly, "but you far surpass her in those regards, my lady."

Gúthwyn blushed, secretly pleased by the compliment and even more thrilled that her champion did not stammer in its delivery—nor did he look over at Brithwen, as if guilty for his words. Did this mean that their friendship was returning, and that he could once again speak to her with ease? "You are the kind one, Tun," she returned. Had their relationship been as it used to, she would have added jokingly that he was also beautiful, but such a jest was no longer appropriate.

At that moment, there was a knock at the front door, and they both glanced over as Brithwen rose and answered it. Halwend had arrived, a fresh heap of bandages in his arms.

"Farewell, Tun," Gúthwyn said, not wanting to get in the healer's way. "I hope you feel better soon."

"Thank you, my lady," he murmured.

As Éomund's daughter left the room, she exchanged greetings with Halwend, and then thanked Brithwen for allowing her into her home. One awkward goodbye later and she was out in the street, wondering what she should do now. Under normal circumstances, she would have visited the stables, but if Amrothos were searching for her to apologize it would only be too easy to find her there, and if it was to be confessed she had no desire to make his search any less difficult.

So instead she began walking down towards the gates, intending to mingle with her people and perhaps watch the training grounds from afar. As she went, several children ran by her, the boys waving wooden swords around and the girls with ribbons entwined in their hair. Ever since the tournament, they had been recreating the games, much to the delight and exasperation of all passerby.

At length she came to the "arena" (a stretch of the main road most had learned to avoid, unless they wished to be mauled by hordes of excited children) where, to Gúthwyn's amusement, Haiweth was taking a turn presiding over the competition.

"Good sirs, begin!" the girl called, despite her pompous tone grinning ear to ear. Gúthwyn glanced at the boys now attacking each other with wooden swords, her mouth opening in surprise when she recognized Alphros. Whenever he and his opponent paused to take breath, the child's eyes would dart furtively around him. Elphir, clearly, had no idea that he was here.

Alphros ended up winning the match, and though some of the Rohirrim heckled him for it he bore their taunts with grace. Elphir had taught him well.

"Thank you, Haiweth," he said sincerely when Haiweth gave him his prize: a necklace of flowers that she had evidently made herself. The custom must have been for the boys to pick a female friend or relative and give it to them, judging by how many girls were wearing them—some more than one—but Alphros instead slipped it over his own head, joining the laughter at his antics.

A new contest was beginning. Haiweth stepped down from the barrel of hay she had been standing on, allowing another to clamber on it and announce the rules of the next match. She and Alphros then struck up an animated conversation, ignoring the chaos reigning beside them.

Smiling, Gúthwyn approached them. "Congratulations, Alphros," she said when she had drawn within hearing distance. "You are quite the warrior."

Alphros swiveled around at the sound of her voice and spent an apprehensive moment regarding her. Then, upon realizing that Elphir was nowhere in sight, he beamed. "I have only lost one fight!" he declared, his necklace shedding a couple of petals as he bounced up and down.

"That is an impressive record," Gúthwyn praised, meeting Haiweth's eyes and resisting the urge to laugh at Alphros's bubbly manner of address. "And who, might I ask, claimed the victory over you?"

"Heahtor," Alphros answered, stumbling over the name. "He said his uncle is a Marshal! What is that?"

"It is a very high office," Gúthwyn replied, grinning at Alphros's infectious ardor. "In Dol Amroth, do you have generals?"

Alphros nodded. "I am going to be one!" he stated proudly. From anyone else, the speech would have sounded arrogant, but Alphros managed to convey it with an air of impishness that betrayed all guises of gravity. "I shall command a fleet, and travel to see Aunt Lothíriel whenever I want!"

Gúthwyn could not help but giggle at this, though her mirth was not unkind. It was not possible to journey from Dol Amroth to Rohan solely on water. She was, however, not about to dampen Amrothos's wild fantasies.

"Alphros, what are you doing?"

Elphir's harsh voice resonated in Gúthwyn's ears, and she turned to see the eldest prince striding furiously over to them. Without looking at Éomund's daughter he stared at his son, an angry expression upon his face. As the children around them began to realize what was happening their tournament was brought to a halt, themselves changing from participants to silent spectators.

"Well?" Elphir demanded when Alphros quailed, seemingly too frightened to answer. "You know you are not to leave our tent without my permission—why have you disobeyed me?"

"I wanted to play," Alphros whispered, quivering in terror.

"And what did I tell you about socializing with these children?" Elphir pressed, gesturing violently at Haiweth.

"That is enough," Gúthwyn said coldly, stepping forward.

"You," Elphir snarled venomously, "have no right to be speaking with my son. Corrupt your own bastard children, but—"

"I do not know where you got that ridiculous idea," Gúthwyn snapped, her hands clenched into fists and shaking at the accusation, "yet it seems your wits have deserted you, if you believe the rumors of your pathetic excuse for a court. Did it ever occur to you that if Haiweth were my daughter, I would have had to give birth to her when I was fourteen, never mind the fact that her brother is three years older than her?"

Elphir recoiled, but Gúthwyn ignored him and continued. "Your behavior is despicable," she spat, "and if you have nothing but gossip to repeat to me, then pray remain quiet and spare my ears from your contempt. And that is something you are good at, ignoring me!"

"Ignoring _you?_" Elphir repeated incredulously, his disbelief swiftly giving way to rage. "Am I to pretend, then, that you did not spend the whole of our marriage negotiations carrying on with any man who would pay you the slightest bit of attention, and that you did not rebuff every single one of my let—"

"_How dare you?_" Gúthwyn shrieked, not only mortified that a crowd of children (at least one of whom understood the Common Tongue) were listening in on their argument but also disgusted that he was so taken in by the lies of the Dol Amroth delegation. "I never—"

"There you are, I have been looking all over for you!"

It was close, but Gúthwyn somehow managed to keep herself from screaming in frustration. Amrothos sauntered over to the group, his dark eyes taking in their audience. "Run along now, boys and girls," he smirked, making a dismissive gesture with his hands. "I am sure watching these adults argue is very entertaining, yet—"

"Have you no sense of decency?" Elphir rounded on his brother, raising his arm as if to strike the younger prince but restraining himself just in time. As he did so, Gúthwyn leaned over and whispered to a petrified Haiweth in Rohirric:

"I am sorry, little one. Please, bring the children elsewhere and continue your games."

"On the contrary, I try to avoid all associations with that word," Amrothos was saying as Haiweth rounded up her companions. Alphros lingered, though he looked as if he would have given anything to go with her. "You should follow my example for a day, dear brother, it might do you some good. In the meantime, however, I must ask you to step aside, for there is a matter I need to discuss with Lady Gúthwyn alone."

"No," Gúthwyn said sharply, but Elphir, whose features had turned foul with hatred, replied just as scathingly:

"What an excellent idea! Perhaps you might also accompany her behind the stables, so that both of you will have another notch on your belts—assuming there is any room for additions!"

"You interpret things like a woman," Amrothos sneered as Gúthwyn blanched, feeling sick. "Lest you forget, the whores I pay for are rather well-endowed—"

"There is a child present!" Gúthwyn reminded them shrilly, ignoring the would-be slight to her curves. "Both of you have worse manners than a barbarian! I never received the impression that Amrothos was better than one, but Elphir, I expected more from a man I once held in such high esteem!"

She turned her blurring gaze to Alphros, whose jaw was practically on the ground. "I am sorry, Alphros," she said unsteadily, "that you had to bear witness to this. Forgive me."

Without another word she turned and walked away, wiping her eyes so they were not tempted to become wet again. She had wasted enough tears on Elphir; why should she exert herself further, when he had proven himself to be nothing other than a petty noble who put more weight in gossip than he did in logic? Perhaps she had been mistaken in his kindness. Perhaps he had always been this way, and she had been so blinded by his charm during his visits that she had not seen beyond to what he was truly like.

"Take that ridiculous necklace off," she heard Elphir ordering Alphros as she left them behind. How could she have been so foolish as to ever imagine that he was her friend?

_Only six more days,_ she thought wistfully. _Six more days, and they will all be gone, and I shall be able to see Elfwine again._

Little did she know that those six days would prove to be the longest stretch of this entire, wretched month.


	106. Éomer's Ill Timed Request

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Six:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Six**

Unfortunately for Gúthwyn, Amrothos caught up with her before she had gone more than halfway up the street. "My brother has grown remarkably uptight, has he not?" the prince inquired lightly, matching her stride.

"Leave me alone," Gúthwyn snapped, having no desire to tolerate the company of this odious man.

"Oh, must you be so insufferable?" Amrothos complained. "You know, had he not decided that you were not virginal enough for his tastes, the two of you would have gotten along quite well together."

"Leave me alone!" Gúthwyn repeated, wanting nothing more than to unleash her fury upon Imrahil's third son and beat him until he was a bloody, sniveling pulp. If she were not so unwilling to invoke additional anger from her brother, or to lower Imrahil's opinion of her, she would have done so quite happily.

"Touchy, touchy," Amrothos said with a smirk. "Am I to be persecuted for telling the truth? Everyone knows that you are not a maiden—not that _I_ mind, of course, but—"

"I was under the impression that you were supposed to be apologizing to me for your behavior last night," Gúthwyn growled, the hand with which she normally gripped Framwine twitching a considerable amount.

"I had forgotten about that!" Amrothos exclaimed. "You should have seen the expression on your face, it was quite amusing…" At a death glare from Gúthwyn, he gave a mock bow and said, most unconvincingly, "I am terribly sorry for all the distress I caused you, and I will try to not let it happen again."

"It will _not_ happen again," Gúthwyn said through clenched teeth, too irritated to feign happiness as she nodded at the passing Elfhelm, "or I shall ensure that I am leaning over you when I vomit."

"Black pudding is a delicacy!" Amrothos cried indignantly. "And you speak of throwing it up—"

"I was _sick_ because of it!" Gúthwyn shrieked, not noticing that her voice had risen so loudly. "I suppose _you_ thought it was funny, you vile, arrogant—"

"Is something wrong?"

To Gúthwyn's eternal relief, when she turned around it was Elfhelm she saw. Evidently, the Marshal had overheard their argument; his brow was knitted in concern, and his eyes were narrowed in suspicion at Amrothos. For a moment, Gúthwyn wondered if she should not simply deny that anything was out of place, but when she looked at Amrothos—who had a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, obviously of similar mind—she steeled her resolve and declared:

"Yes, actually. This _prince_"—she gestured towards Amrothos—"a word I use lightly, is the most disgusting man I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. I envy you, Elfhelm, that you are not bound as a host to endure his miserable presence!"

Not at all put out by her accusations, Amrothos grinned and said to Elfhelm, "If I am not mistaken, she is madly in love with me."

There were no traces of amusement on Elfhelm's features, which hardened as he stepped forward and warned, "I would not advise treating Lady Gúthwyn with anything less than the utmost respect she deserves, young prince. You already tread thin ice with the king—do not lose your footing by being too bold with his sister!"

"I am hardly the first," Amrothos scoffed.

"Whoreson," Elfhelm snarled, his vehemence startling Gúthwyn. "I thought even you would be intelligent enough to realize that the gossip is just that: nothing more than a bundle of vicious lies, but evidently, such logic is over your head. How dare you speak so rudely about your hosts?"

Perhaps Amrothos had a sudden moment of sensibility, for he shrugged, lifted his hands in a small gesture of surrender, and said smoothly, "Just having my bit of fun."

"Then have your fun elsewhere," Elfhelm spat. "If I see you troubling or hear of you insulting Lady Gúthwyn again, I will draw my sword first and beg forgiveness of your father later."

Amrothos paused and considered; he glanced back and forth between Gúthwyn and the Marshal, contemplating something. At last he shook his head, as if dismissing an idea, and said cheekily, "Your chivalry is commendable, old man, but if your aim is to impress her, you should have tried twenty years ago!"

"You—"

Laughing at his joke, Amrothos strolled away, blissfully unaware that Elfhelm's fingers were straying tantalizingly close to his sword.

"I mean no slight to Imrahil's wife, but it seems impossible that Amrothos is his son," Gúthwyn muttered.

"I cannot believe that he could be so impudent," Elfhelm glowered, "with so little thought for the consequences of his actions."

"He may perceive himself immune to them—after all, what member of his court would dare reprimand him?" Gúthwyn asked. "They are too afraid of losing their standing to risk publicly finding offense in his behavior."

"Fools," Elfhelm said irritably. "If Elfwine ever behaves like that, I hope you will not hesitate to give him a good smack up the head."

"I like to think that he shall be able to exert more control over himself," Gúthwyn replied, ignoring the sadness that gripped her at the mention of her nephew, "although he is quite stubborn with Lothíriel sometimes."

"Well…" Elfhelm smiled and then sobered, his expression serious as he informed her, "I will speak to Éomer about Amrothos's reprehensible behavior."

"No!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, horrified. Éomer had enough to worry about, most of his concerns on her account—she did not need to add to them even further than she already had. "No, Elfhelm, please. Éomer is a busy man; I do not wish to increase his burden. No, Elfhelm"—the Marshal had started to speak—"please, do not trouble yourself."

"If that is what you desire," Elfhelm said, not quite meeting her eyes.

"It is," Gúthwyn confirmed. "Now, if you will excuse me, my lord, I intend on going to the stables."

"How is Sceoh doing?" Elfhelm inquired. The former owner of Gúthwyn's horse, he had had many difficulties with the animal, though still retained an interest in him.

"We have yet to overcome the trust obstacle," Gúthwyn said wryly. Sceoh consented to let her ride him, but if she made the slightest unexpected movement he would grow skittish and practically unmanageable.

"Better you than me," Elfhelm chuckled. "Is he accepting food?"

"If I leave it out for him, he will eat it," Gúthwyn answered, "but never when I am there."

Elfhelm looked impressed. "That is far more than I ever succeeded in doing," he said. "He takes well to you, then?"

"Reasonably," Gúthwyn replied, smiling a little. "We are somewhat alike."

"Indeed?" Elfhelm asked, surprised. "How so?"

"In case you have not noticed, we are both sickly," Gúthwyn pointed out. "As a matter of fact, I am surprised that I have not fallen ill since my birthday."

Elfhelm's face clouded. "May the next time be long in coming," he said. "I should not be keeping you—good luck with Sceoh!"

Gúthwyn thanked him and continued on her way to the stables, humming at the prospect of not having to endure Amrothos's company. As she walked, she happened to glance up at Meduseld, and was rather surprised to see Hammel on the landing. With the exception of his classes with Cobryn, he rarely ventured outside, and was more likely to be found in his room with a book thicker than Gúthwyn was.

Her brow furrowed when she realized that he was talking to a courier, who had evidently just arrived with a bundle of letters. Since the royal family of Rohan frequently corresponded with Imrahil and his children, there were less envelopes than usual, but still a hefty amount. As Gúthwyn watched, the courier reached into his pouch and withdrew a book, whose title she was unable to read.

Hammel took it and paid him, glancing around as if to make sure that no one important had seen. When he was satisfied—Gúthwyn had moved behind a cluster of gossiping women, and so concealed herself—he thanked the messenger and retreated back into Meduseld. Gúthwyn emerged from behind the other Rohirrim and debated questioning the courier, but the idea seemed like too much of an invasion of Hammel's privacy.

_It is likely something he could not find in Rohan_, she decided, though that would not explain Hammel's secrecy. _Cobryn must have given him the money for it._

Shrugging, and making a mental note to speak to her friend and determine how much she owed him, Gúthwyn continued on her way to the stables, marveling at how little she knew about Hammel's doings these days.

* * *

"So, my lord husband," Lothíriel said when her father left the table, bringing an end to what had been a lengthy debate about the advantages of having a strong navy versus an unbeatable cavalry, "what shall we do now?" 

Unseen by any of the servants, she slipped a teasing hand underneath Éomer's shirt, her lightest touch enough to make him draw breath.

"My lady wife, you torment me," Éomer whispered in a strangled kind of voice. Lothíriel rarely showed affection in public, but when she did he often thought he would be driven mad.

"Then perhaps I should stop?" she asked slyly, withdrawing all but one of her fingers. The mischievous look on her face was enough to make him want to draw her to him and devour her lips in a bruising, passionate kiss, yet some of the nobility from Dol Amroth were loitering around and they did not need additional excuses to perceive his people as poorly-mannered.

"I have a better idea," Éomer said, casting a glance in the direction of their chambers. "What if you and I were to retire, and—"

"My lord?"

Cursing Elfhelm's timing, Éomer looked up to see the Marshal approaching him, his brow furrowed in worry.

"Is something wrong?" Éomer inquired, sighing a little when Lothíriel moved her hand out from beneath his tunic.

"I am sorry to interrupt," Elfhelm said, "but it is about Gúthwyn."

Éomer straightened, all of his instincts instantly on edge. With his baby sister he had grown to fear the worst, whether it was her impersonating a male soldier again or—a thought that sent chills up and down his spine—her becoming delirious with fever.

"What is it?" he demanded, his mind running through a list of things that could have happened to her, each of them more frightening than the last.

Elfhelm looked uncomfortably at Lothíriel. "If now is not a good moment, I can wait, but it would be better if I were to speak to you alone."

"That is all right," Lothíriel said gracefully, before Éomer could even open his mouth. Leaning over, she whispered in her husband's ear, "I fancy lying in bed for awhile… would you be interested in joining me when you are done?"

"Certainly," he murmured back, grateful for her understanding. "I hope you do not fall asleep!"

"If you tarry, I might," she threatened with a smile, and rose to her feet. "My lord," she acknowledged Elfhelm.

"My lady." Elfhelm inclined his head, not lifting it until she had walked away. He then took a seat across from Éomer. "Amrothos is following Gúthwyn around again."

"_What?_" Éomer snarled, all thoughts of a rendezvous with his wife effectively driven out of his head.

"I saw them walking together today," Elfhelm answered in a low voice, "and they seemed to be arguing, so I asked them if anything was wrong. Éomer, never before have I heard your sister utter a word of complaint about him, though his treatment of her is repulsive. Today, however, she made a point of expressing her hatred for him, and when I warned Amrothos to watch his behavior, he…" The Marshal's gaze darkened. "His choice remarks made it very clear that he believes all of the gossip about her."

Éomer could practically feel his eyes darkening. "That whoreson!" he growled. Thanks to Amrothos, he was using that epithet far more often lately than he normally did. "If Imrahil were not his father I would have lost my temper with him long ago—how dare he insult my baby sister? Did he learn _nothing_ from my warning?"

After discovering that the reason behind Gúthwyn's mysterious illness was Amrothos's prank, Éomer had confronted the prince and spent several satisfying moments yelling at him, rounding the whole tirade off with the threat that if the younger man ever attempted something like that again, he would find himself parting company with his head.

Apparently, the head in question was too thick to have processed such an ultimatum.

"He is determined to flirt with her," Elfhelm said, his eyes narrowed in dislike, "and he could care less that she is not a willing participant in his game. It astounds me that any offspring of Imrahil's would be so insolent."

"Yes, well, he is not the only prince to have earned my wrath this past month," Éomer replied, a muscle in his jaw twitching. At this rate, the only one of Imrahil's sons he could have a civil discourse with was Erchirion, who had made it clear from the beginning that he was not going to be involved in any of his brother's romantic tangles. Rather than risk association with their affairs, he had taken to spending great amounts of time at the archery grounds, and usually made his appearances solely during meals.

"Shall I have Gamling teach Amrothos a lesson?" Elfhelm asked, half-serious.

"As much as it would please me, I do not want to lose Imrahil's friendship," Éomer answered darkly. Gamling was often happily deployed to send messages that were best delivered without words. With Gríma's henchmen long gone from Meduseld, his work in that area had been almost nonexistent, save for the occasion where Tun's courtship of Gúthwyn had overstretched its bounds. Éomer now wished he had exercised better judgment and not brought his sister's champion so much pain, but he could not alter the past.

"Would you like me to keep watching him, then?" Elfhelm inquired, bring the king of Rohan out of his thoughts.

"Yes, by all means," Éomer said, nodding. Ever since Gúthwyn had shown herself so eager to get away from Amrothos that she would willingly seek out the company of an Elf, when she was normally terrified of the fair race, he had asked his men to alert him if they ever saw Amrothos behaving inappropriately around her. Imrahil did not know that this guard had been placed on his son, nor did Lothíriel. While Éomer would protect his sister at all costs, he did not want his activities to bring offense to those he also held dear.

_Perhaps Lothíriel might discourage him from his ways,_ Éomer thought suddenly, struck by both the idea and his foolishness for not realizing it earlier. Surely, she would not mind intervening—after all, Amrothos had plenty of women to chase around, and the sooner he learned that Gúthwyn was not one of them the better.

"I have business to attend to, my lord," Elfhelm announced then, drawing him out of his musings, "but if I see him with her again, I will let you know."

"Thank you, my friend," Éomer replied. "Soon, I am all too glad to say that your services will no longer be needed."

"Aye, less than a week!" On that note Elfhelm departed, leaving Éomer free to follow up on his own plans—and some love-making.

Exiting the room before any other Marshals, advisors, or nobles could accost him, he quickly passed into his chambers, where he was greeted by the welcoming sight of Lothíriel lying in bed as naked as the day she had been born.

"This is a pleasant surprise," he murmured appreciatively, closing the door behind him and locking it firmly.

Lothíriel smiled, stretching out a little in a way that made his stomach turn into knots. "I thought you might like it," she said boldly, though a faint blush decorated her cheeks. "Elfwine is with Bregwyn for another hour, and I have given the maids all of this week's laundry, so we have some time to ourselves."

"As usual, you have taken care of everything, dear wife," Éomer replied, casting off his tunic. His breeches came next, slightly more difficult to remove due to the fact that they were growing rather tight. "What would I ever do without you?" he asked, sliding under the covers next to her.

"I am sure you would manage," Lothíriel responded, laughing. "You are a strong warrior"—she caressed the already-taut muscles of his back—"not to mention a king"—her hands slipped downwards, causing him to turn nearly light-headed with pleasure.

"But you, Lothíriel," he whispered, kissing the hollow of her neck, "are the reason I have not been driven mad by my duties… in fact, sometimes I think you are better at managing a realm than I…"

"Compared to managing you, it is not very difficult," she said mischievously.

"What do you mean by that?" Éomer asked with mock indignity, his fingers reaching over and gently prizing a lock of dark hair away from her breath-taking eyes. "On second thought, perhaps I do not want to know…"

"Then stop talking," Lothíriel ordered, and pulled him towards her. Chuckling, Éomer obliged, using one arm on either side of her to prop himself up as her legs made room for her husband.

"There is one thing," he began, remembering Gúthwyn, "that I must ask of you first."

"Yes?" Lothíriel inquired, running her hands through what she affectionately liked to refer to as his mane.

For a moment, Éomer wondered if he should just leave the matter until after they were finished, but he likely would not be able to think straight when they were done, let alone utter anything beyond endearments. "Amrothos is trailing my baby sister," he said, not noticing when his wife stiffened beneath him, as she had been tense ever since the delegation of Dol Amroth arrived, "and I was hoping you might tell him to stop, for she does not desire his attentions and there are plenty of other women to whom he can devote his pursuits."

"Of course, my lord husband," Lothíriel agreed quietly. "I cannot guarantee that he will listen to me, but I shall do my best."

"Thank you," Éomer said, blessing the day the Valar had brought Lothíriel into his life. Assured now that Gúthwyn was no longer at risk from Amrothos's wanton behavior, he placed a gentle kiss on his wife's lips. "Now, where were we?" he asked when they separated.

"Right about here," Lothíriel murmured, and with the lightest touch of her hand guided his hips to hers. Gúthwyn was forgotten as Éomer sank into bliss; only Lothíriel mattered, her silky smooth skin and the delicate lips that he was crushing beneath his own.

* * *

With a sigh, Éomund's daughter shut the door of the stables behind her. She had parted from Elfhelm confident in the Marshal's threats against Amrothos, but at one point she had looked back to see none other than the prince, out on the main street again and very obviously searching for her. As a result, she had practically fled into the stables, not wanting to be seen; security was at last felt when she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, calmed by the knowledge that the few beings around her were all horses. 

"Is something wrong?"

Gúthwyn's eyes flew open, but recognizing the voice she willed herself not to gasp. Evidently, she was not alone. Legolas glanced at her from where he was standing next to Arod, his face lined with concern.

"N-No, not at all," she said shakily, trying to ignore the way her heart was pounding. It was simply the surprise of encountering him here, when she had believed herself to be without company. "I-I did not expect—are you going for a ride?"

Legolas nodded. "It has been long since I have done so," he replied, stroking Arod's mane.

"Oh." Gúthwyn bit her lip, deliberating; should she merely groom Sceoh today, and ride him tomorrow? If she were to venture out onto the plains this afternoon, no doubt she would see Legolas, and then as his host be expected to trot along with him. Was she ready for that? Even under Balman's sharp watch, she was afraid…

_Why?_ a voice demanded. _What reason do you have to fear him? He has done nothing to you, nothing!_

_But I do not wish to ride with him,_ part of her protested. _In fact, I think Sceoh needs a good brushing, his mane is full of tangles. Yes, that is what I should do. Besides, Legolas probably wants to spend some time alone—he did not bring his friends with him, after all. It would be better if I stayed._

Determined that she should not inconvenience anyone, Gúthwyn walked towards Sceoh, but the animal sensed her nervousness and was edgy as she greeted him.

"What happened to him?" Legolas asked quietly, his eyes noting Sceoh's stance.

"He was bitten by a Warg," Gúthwyn explained, her tone equally soft as she stepped into the stall. "His Rider was slain, and the beasts went after him."

She could not help but shiver as she spoke. To some extent, she had conquered her fear of the Wargs—yet still they lingered as a shadow in her mind, a shadow and a pair of gleaming eyes that sought to break her will. There were few, if any, left to roam the wilderness today. Even so, she was afraid of hearing their call, of seeing the yellow pinpricks that to her were the beacons of hell.

The sound of the door opening interrupted Legolas, who had been about to respond to her, and the two of them looked up to see Amrothos saunter confidently into the stables. Paying no heed to the Elf, the young prince glanced around, there being no doubt as to whom he was hoping to find. Gúthwyn made a half-hearted attempt to hide behind Sceoh, but it was utterly useless.

"Tell me, does that Elfhelmet really have nothing better to do with his time than to serve as your bodyguard?" Amrothos inquired upon spotting her, strolling over and leaning casually against the stall.

"His name is Elf_helm_," Gúthwyn replied scathingly. "And he is _not_ my bodyguard. He is a Marshal."

"Impressive," Amrothos said snidely. "He wanted to kill me; I thought it rather amusing. It would be better if he were to learn how to restrain his—"

"If your sole purpose in being here is to insult a great friend of mine, then get out," Gúthwyn snapped, forgetting that Legolas could hear every word of their conversation.

"Not at all!" Amrothos exclaimed, affecting surprise. "Despite your rudeness towards myself and my brother earlier today, I have decided to set aside our differences for the time being and act as your escort for the afternoon."

"_My_ rudeness?" Gúthwyn echoed. "You and Elphir both insulted me and somehow _my_ manners are questionable?"

"You know, it is not becoming of a woman to hold such grudges as you do," Amrothos said smugly. "Are you ready to go, or shall I saddle that horse myself?"

"If you touch him, I will kill you," Gúthwyn snarled. Sceoh stamped his feet and flinched when she attempted to calm him, her tone of voice having aroused his anxiety. Growing more irritated with Amrothos by the second, she added, "You need to correct the mistaken assumption that I am going on a ride with you, for I am not, and I would not even if you were the last person on Middle-earth."

"So hostile," Amrothos mused, now openly provoking her. "Is Rohan really this barbaric, or is it just you and Elfhelmet?"

"You insult your sister's home?" Gúthwyn returned, ordering herself not to seize the nearest weapon—or pitchfork, she was hardly choosy—and murder the prince with it. Instead, she opened the door of the stall, taking care to slam it into Amrothos as she did so, and went to get Sceoh's saddle. Her gaze darted to Legolas, wondering why he had not yet left the stables, and she saw that he had begun to groom Arod.

_That is odd,_ she thought, yet she paid the matter no more heed as she returned to Sceoh and began preparing him for the excursion. All the while, she completely ignored Amrothos, who had not deigned to come up with a response to her question.

"Are you going to be this difficult when we leave the city?" he chose to inquire instead.

His persistence was even more vexing than his personality. "For the last time, you will _not_ be my escort," she said.

"Verily?" Amrothos questioned. "You would risk aggrieving your guest and leaving him without your pleasurable company? Now, if one of your dashing friends—say, Cobryn, or Tun—were to have already claimed you for the afternoon, I might relent… but alas, neither of them are in any condition to do so, are they?"

Fortunately for Amrothos, Framwine was no longer in Gúthwyn's possession, for if it had been his days would have come to a rapid and painful close. As it were, Éomund's daughter had to fight tooth and nail not to launch herself at him; desperate for an excuse to get away, she blurted out, "I promised Legolas that we would ride together."

It was lucky that both princes started and looked at each other rather than her, for her cheeks were suddenly flaming and she was half-tempted to retract her words.

"I see," Amrothos said slowly, as Legolas's focus shifted onto Éomund's daughter. "Well, in that case, I shall have to rearrange tomorrow's plans. Enjoy your afternoon."

With an infuriating wink, he strode out of the stables, leaving Gúthwyn struggling to not be overcome by a combination of fury, confusion, and worry.

"I-I am sorry," she said to Legolas, reluctant to meet his eyes. "You do not have to join me."

"Would you like me not to?" he inquired gently.

Blushing, for she had not intended to sound as though she were rescinding an invitation, Gúthwyn stammered, "No—I mean, if you would rather be alone—but if you want to…" She trailed off, at a loss for words, wishing she had Cobryn's gift for them.

"I should at least accompany you out of the city," Legolas decided with a small smile, "in case Amrothos has lingered."

"Oh, yes, of course…"

On that note, Gúthwyn turned to Sceoh, her face hot, and she made some unnecessary adjustments to the saddle before fitting it on him. Legolas waited patiently for her, his presence a source of embarrassment for her as Sceoh shied away from his nervous owner.

"Sorry," she apologized to the horse in Rohirric, "I am not trying to be frightened… he just looks so much like him… Sceoh, please, hold still, I promise, everything is fine…"

The stallion obeyed, but he shifted when she mounted him and needed almost a full minute of coaxing before he trudged out of the stall. It was her own fault—if only she were able to control her emotions, to rein in her feelings so that Sceoh could not detect them! If she was calm, he would be, too. And yet she could not suppress her mortification, her uneasiness at having met Legolas so suddenly.

"How old is he?" the prince in question asked just then, coming up alongside her upon Arod. Interestingly, Sceoh did not attempt to put more distance between himself and the other horse.

"Fifteen," Gúthwyn answered as they gradually emerged into the afternoon sunlight. She blinked, raising a hand over her eyes, and so did not notice Amrothos watching her from the landing of Meduseld. Legolas, however, did.

"Have you yet spoken to your brother about Amrothos?" he inquired.

Taken aback by the subject change, Gúthwyn nevertheless was quick to shake her head. "I will not," she replied. "He should not have to pay any more attention to me than he already does."

"The prince's behavior is intolerable," Legolas marveled. "Every word he utters is an insult."

"I do not think he holds the nobility in high regard," Gúthwyn said. "From what I have heard, I am not the only one of my status whom he has affronted."

"Yet he seeks you out especially," Legolas remarked. "Does—"

"Oh, no," Gúthwyn whispered.

A throng of children had just emerged from out of nowhere, younger than Haiweth's group but obviously playing the same game. Shrieking and laughing, waving their wooden swords, they darted around Legolas and Gúthwyn, a few of the more daring running in the space between their horses. At the sight of their weapons, harmless though they were, Sceoh panicked, rearing up on his hind legs.

Gúthwyn barely had time to secure her hold as he did so, and she clung to him for dear life when he came back down and went up again, now terrified of the people who had drawn closer in an attempt to help their lady—or move her out of harm's way, should she fall.

"Wait!" she heard Legolas shouting to them, his voice sounding very dim in her ears. This had never happened to her with Heorot; she knew the ways to control a frightened horse, but it was all she could do to concentrate on not slipping from the saddle. Her heart was pounding, making it even more difficult to think.

Sceoh's terror ended as quickly as it had come. When his forelegs touched the ground once more, Gúthwyn almost did not realize that Legolas had reached over and taken the reins until they were no longer in front of her. It was several seconds before she became aware that he was talking to Sceoh in Elvish. When she at last heard him, she started, surprised by the melodic quality of his voice that she had never noticed until this moment.

To her astonishment, whatever he was saying—and she could not understand any of it—appeared to be effective on Sceoh, who noticeably calmed down, and did not tense when Legolas guided Arod closer and stroked his neck. All the while, the prince continued to murmur in Elvish, his speech soothing even to Gúthwyn, who thought the sensation unsettling and yet welcome.

The crowd around them began to disperse, assured that Sceoh was no longer a threat, and at length Legolas was quiet. Sceoh did not move a muscle as the Elf's touch was withdrawn.

"What did you say to him?" Gúthwyn asked, amazed.

Legolas shrugged. "Sindarin is a tongue that often pacifies animals," he explained. "I simply told him that he has no reason to fear, and that you will treat him well."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn murmured, looking down at Sceoh. He was completely tame beneath her, examining his surroundings and waiting expectantly for them to start moving again. "I… how did you—?"

Smiling, Legolas responded, "There is something about the languages of the Eldar that comforts creatures."

Gúthwyn considered this after they had started trotting again, Sceoh perfectly content and not even skittering around the more rambunctious of her people. Evidently, Legolas's presence put him at ease; she was not jealous of the prince, but rather intrigued by Sindarin, which must have been an Elvish dialect. Legolas was not the first she had heard using it, yet today was the only time she had been struck by its beauty. Haldor had never spoken it around her, though Mirkwood was not the only place where Elves hailed from and it was possible that he knew another variation.

_How can you consider Sindarin beautiful after all that Haldor has done?_ an accusing voice in her mind asked. _He is an Elf, do you not remember?_

_But he never used Sindarin!_ another side protested. _I should not be disgusted by it!_

_It is the tongue of Elves,_ the former hissed. _Are you simply going to ignore all the times that you were humiliated by one of _them_? You betray yourself to be taken in by this 'pretty' language! It is not pretty, it belongs to the beings you hate!_

_Fear, not hate,_ she corrected herself.

_Hate_, the other half insisted. _You hate them for what Haldor did, and you know it. Stop trying to pretend otherwise!_

_I do not,_ Gúthwyn swore silently. _I will not make the same mistake I did with Legolas._

Besides, anything that calmed her horse could not be evil… or could it? She had assumed Elves to be horrible creatures for so long that she did not know how to think otherwise, and it confused her to attempt to do so. What if Haldor was not the exception, but rather Legolas? After all, if the Elves were such a glorious race, as Aragorn believed, how could Haldor have been so cruel?

_Why can the answer not be simple?_ she wondered, sighing as the gates of Edoras drew nearer._Is it so wrong for me to be friends with an Elf, or am I wrong for my feelings against them, when Haldor is the only one who has ever done me harm?_

She could not dwell on this now, or she would lose her mind. Determining to at least enjoy herself for the time being, and contemplate the morality of it when she did not have a prince to feign normalcy in front of, Gúthwyn squared her shoulders and rode out of the city with Legolas.


	107. A Chat Between Siblings

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Seven:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Seven**

"If I am not being too bold, how did Elphir and Amrothos insult you earlier today?" Legolas inquired once they had left Edoras, his brow knitted as he recalled a detail from Gúthwyn's previous exchange with the youngest prince of Dol Amroth.

"The usual," Gúthwyn answered bitterly. "They called me a whore, this time in front of a group of children!" Her cheeks flushed as she said this, more out of anger than embarrassment.

Legolas's eyes darkened. "I used to think highly of Elphir," he spoke slowly, "yet increasingly it seems that I can no longer do so."

"You are not the only one." Gúthwyn sighed, her gaze turning outwards towards the distant mountains. "I agreed to marry him because, at the very least, he was kind to me. Now he will have nothing to do with me, though I have not merited this treatment." She ignored the fraction of her mind that hissed otherwise.

Legolas opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment several voices hailed him. Both he and Gúthwyn turned to see a small contingent of Elves at the archery grounds, waving at their prince and calling out, most of their remarks seemingly directed towards their success with the targets. Gúthwyn did not know what they were saying, and in any case was rather preoccupied with staring determinedly at the ground, so it was not until she heard Raniean that she lifted her head.

The Elf was making an inquiry of Legolas, one that sounded like he was attempting to restrain his irritation, and one that was causing a muscle in the prince's jaw to tighten. Some of the other Elves quickly discovered that various adjustments needed to be made to their bows, while the rest bore somber witness.

Legolas's reply was terse, and when Raniean's expression darkened his gaze was no longer on his friend, but rather Gúthwyn. Shifting uncomfortably in the saddle, Éomund's daughter did not dare meet his eyes, remembering that Raniean—for reasons unbeknownst to her—loathed humans. She had very little doubt as to what he was now discussing with Legolas.

The conversation was soon brought to a close, however, Legolas's tone making it very clear that he had no desire to pursue the subject. Gúthwyn wondered what Raniean could have possibly said that was so offensive; she did not think it would be a particularly flattering thing for Legolas to relate to her. Nevertheless, she longed to ask, but she was afraid that such a question would seem improper.

Legolas, however, brought the topic up first. "My apologies for his behavior," he murmured, exhaling as he turned Arod around to face the open plain. Gúthwyn did likewise with Sceoh, still marveling at her horse's newfound docility. "As I told you once, he does not approve of my associating with mortals."

"Why?" Gúthwyn blurted out, despite her former resolve to be courteous.

She immediately regretting pressing the issue when Legolas cleared his throat, looking away briefly in a manner that indicated he could not answer truthfully before saying, "He has not forgotten that of all Sauron's forces, Men comprised the greatest number."

The unfairness of this statement spurred Gúthwyn to protest. "None of my people ever fought for the Dark Lord," she pointed out, "myself being the unwilling exception…" She trailed off suddenly, an uneasy suspicion winding through her that Legolas had betrayed this detail of her life to Raniean. It was hardly a secret that she had been a slave in Isengard and Mordor, at least not in Rohan, but it went without saying that the tale was not to be spread.

"I did not tell him," Legolas swiftly promised, his whole-hearted denial making her flush in embarrassment for even having thought of it. "You are not the only one to whom he has directed this prejudice."

Bewildered by this, Gúthwyn said, "The Battle of Dagorlad was so long ago… surely—"

"An Age is not very long to an Elf," Legolas replied gently, his voice lowered though they had now gone some distance away from Raniean. "Nor is it in his character to be forgiving."

Gúthwyn bit her lip, not feeling it her right to say anything further. Raniean's behavior was positively chivalric when compared to how she had treated Legolas in the first few months of their acquaintance. How could she criticize the Elf, when she had done so much worse?

"Come," Legolas said then, breaking the silence. "Where shall we go? You know this land far better than I."

Gúthwyn proposed that they venture out to the hill that served as her boundary, for while Legolas would be considered a suitable guardian in Balman's eyes, she was not yet ready to place herself in a situation where she and the prince would be so alone. And thus they went, Gúthwyn unable to resist the urge to every once in awhile glance back and ensure that Balman was still at his post.

They rode in silence to the hill, but when they had at last climbed the slopes and turned around to see all of Edoras before them, Gúthwyn sighed and said, "I wish the Dol Amroth tents did not mar our fields." _They are an eyesore,_ she added to herself, glaring at the gaudy fabrics that some had been decorated with.

Legolas made an unconscious movement that resembled a nod. "They will be gone in a week," he said diplomatically. "Then you shall be free to ride upon those grounds."

Gúthwyn smiled, though her happiness did not entirely stem from the availability of the fields. Edoras would be a far emptier place without the delegation, and certainly the better for it. Not to mention the fact that, upon the departure of Prince Imrahil and his subjects, her punishment was to be lifted—to see Elfwine again had been her greatest desire for the past week, increasing with each day until she could hardly bear it.

However, she spoke naught of this to Legolas, answering only, "And I will do so without slander and ridicule following my every move."

"It makes me wonder what shall befall them when they return to their home," Legolas confided, a smile tugging at his lips, "and they realize that they have nothing left to discuss!"

Gúthwyn laughed. "Indeed, I have provided so much conversation for them over the course of this month that their lives will be quite dull without me!"

_Then again, perhaps they will simply go back to mocking Lothíriel,_ she thought, sobering slightly. Lothíriel's behavior towards her was such that a week ago pity would not have been possible, but now that she knew how her queen had suffered she could safely say that she had never felt more offended on behalf of anyone than ever before.

"And what of yourself?" Legolas inquired then, drawing her out of her reverie. "How do you occupy your time when there are no visitors to claim it?"

"Not very differently than I do when there are," Gúthwyn replied truthfully. "Although Éomer has seen fit to bar me from my normal pursuits, I am wont to visit the training grounds and go riding whether or not guests are lodging with us." _And play with Elfwine,_ she added wistfully.

Feeling that perhaps she should reciprocate the question, she tore her mind away from her nephew to ask, "And you? Does running a colony permit you any moments of leisure?"

"Surprisingly many," Legolas replied. "I will not deny that there are a fair amount of meetings to attend, but for the most part our fortunes are good and, with the friendship of Elessar, we do not have to worry about the neighboring lands."

"Then, if I were to guess, I would say that you spend the time you are not holding council at the archery range," Gúthwyn responded, smiling.

"You would be correct," Legolas said. "I confess, I have been called obsessive by not a few."

"There is nothing wrong with training," Gúthwyn answered, remembering how often she had practiced in the middle of the night so that her technique would not become rusty.

"No, there is not," Legolas agreed, "although it has frequently been suggested to me that arriving late to assemblies on account of my doing so is perhaps not the wisest course a prince should be taking."

"The joys of duty," Gúthwyn said sardonically. "I thank the Valar that I have little, if any, part to play in the ruling of my people. I have not been present at a single meeting this year, and I would know that something was quite wrong if I was summoned to one."

"Sometimes, I think I envy that position," Legolas admitted. "although less so when I am in Ithilien than Eryn Lasgalen."

"Why is that?" Gúthwyn inquired, knitting her brow.

"My father insists on my punctuality," Legolas said with a grin. "He does not look kindly upon tardiness, nor are his reprimands light."

King Thranduil, for so the ruler of Eryn Lasgalen was named, did not sound like the sort of person that Gúthwyn desired to encounter. "He seems very strict," she commented, hoping that Legolas would not take offense to this judgment of his father. "I am sorry if this is too forward, but do you get along well otherwise?"

"Yes, we do," Legolas was quick to assure her. "All my life, he has brought me up so that I might be a fair and competent ruler—yet above this, he wants what is best for me. His sense of discipline may be harsh, but I cannot fault him for that."

Gúthwyn nodded, though she could not resist saying, "I am glad Éomer finds me more harmful than helpful when it comes to the management of his kingdom. I do not believe I could be so bound, or dedicated, to my duties as you are."

"It is not as difficult as you think," Legolas said, smiling at her position. "The meetings, I cannot pretend otherwise, are rather dull at times, but for someone who cares deeply for their people—such as yourself—it is made bearable by the thought that the labor is worth it."

Shaking her head, Gúthwyn replied, "I love this land and its inhabitants as few others do, yet I have never tricked myself into believing that I could be a competent ruler. My feelings blind me too often towards what needs to be done for the greater good; even when they do not, I should rely wholly on our advisors, who would undoubtedly be more capable than I at making decisions."

This she knew to be true: the months Éomer had spent on campaign with King Elessar had shown her that she was not meant to be a leader, and upon her brother's return she had always gratefully surrendered control of Rohan's affairs to him. She was not the only one who had been relieved that this was so—while Aldor and the others tried to be patient with her ignorance, it was easy for them to grow exasperated with her and Cobryn alone had never berated her for her shortcomings.

"Not all are born to manage," Legolas conceded, the rueful expression on his face suggesting that perhaps even he was not. "And certainly the paperwork is a daunting prospect."

Gúthwyn laughed, an image of the mounds of parchment Éomer had to deal with floating to the top of her mind. It often took him at least an hour to sort through them, especially during winter, when food shortages and illness were prevalent. Lothíriel tried to help whenever she could, but most of the petitions were written in Rohirric, and it was rare that she was able to understand more than a few sentences.

Sceoh snorted then, and looking down she realized that they had been stationary for several minutes. It amazed her how easily she could talk to Legolas. Then again, in comparison to the other visitors, he could not help but shine among them, merely because he did not believe the gossip about her. All the same, however, when she took note of the distance between themselves and Edoras, she thought that perhaps it would be better to move closer to the city.

This she managed to work into a suggestion that did not come off as a paranoid slight, and Legolas accepted it without hint that he had acknowledged it as such. They spent fifteen minutes meandering back towards Edoras, somehow keeping a steady flow of conversation. Gúthwyn's heart was light when at length they passed through the gates, praying that this was a sign of her full recovery, that she could speak with Haldor's duplicate and yet not fear for her safety. By no means had she lost all sense of discomfort around Legolas, but she doubted that some small shred of it would ever wholly disappear—and this was a more than adequate improvement.

_Maybe I will stop having nightmares when he visits,_ she even worked up the optimism to hope as they returned to the stables.

After all, she had nothing to worry about anymore.

* * *

In the bowels of Edoras, a series of dark and narrow streets that Éomund's daughter rarely ventured into, there were several taverns that one might visit, if they were so inclined. Under Théoden's decree, whorehouses were not allowed in the city, but that did not stop multitudes of young women from setting up shop in these locations, providing to their customers both meals and—for a few extra coins—pleasure. It was to these areas that Amrothos, the youngest prince of Dol Amroth, often gravitated, and today was no exception. 

He had already paid for his fourth tankard and was now drinking from it, surveying his surroundings with an uninterested eye and preoccupied with something unusual: a moral dilemma. Across the room, a barmaid was throwing him suggestive looks, but though her curves were not lacking, he felt only the smallest flicker of desire. This had been happening with alarming frequency of late: the women were no less beautiful than they had been before, yet he was seeking their services less and less.

It was difficult to explain why this was, for even he did not know. There used to be nothing that he liked more than a strong brew and a naked woman; together, if possible. He had indulged in both so often that Imrahil had finally prohibited him from being served alcohol in his own home and limited his allowance so that he could not spend as many hours with the tavern wenches.

Amrothos snorted. His father seemed to think that he had a drinking problem. This was utterly ludicrous—what did it matter if he was rarely sober, so long as he did not embarrass himself in public? Indeed, Imrahil's son found that he could not concentrate on his paperwork, minimal though it was, without a drink in hand: his fingers would shake, itching for the handle of a mug in his grasp, and all he could picture was a frothing tankard of mead, just waiting for him to consume it. And that was without mention of the nausea.

Once they had come to Rohan, Imrahil's watch on him had become annoyingly close, namely because the Prince did not wish his hosts to know how much his son drank. Luckily, Amrothos had been able to slip the foolish men sometimes assigned to follow him and discover a few choice locations that may have been seedy, but were better than nothing and in his circumstances jewels scattered amidst a pile of worthless dirt.

The appearance of a disconcerting concept—that moral dilemma—had recently led him to these places several days a week, if not into the arms of a woman then most certainly into the bottom of a cup. Alcohol had always taken his mind off of his problems, or at least made them seem less pressing; with each sip from his mug, Gúthwyn's image blurred a little more, until he could barely see the terror in her eyes.

Miraculously, the determination to seduce the king of Rohan's sister had at first lessened the urge to have as many drinks as he normally would have. Ignoring the stir of unease that rippled through him upon recalling his behavior towards Gúthwyn, Amrothos reflected that he had only gone to the pubs two or three times in the beginning days of his heated pursuit, when he had believed that his attentions would be reciprocated.

Yet he had been wrong. Gúthwyn had not responded to his overtures, and as his successes waned so had his sobriety. For a couple of weeks, she had made him forget what it was like to have alcohol as a constant companion—but now he was revisiting these dives with a vengeance, purchasing as much as he could without Imrahil noticing a significant decrease in his coffers or any perceivable lack of coordination in his son. Amrothos did not find clumsiness to be an issue unless he was utterly drunk, yet on several occasions he had encountered Gúthwyn while inebriated and discovered that the mead made him bolder than ever around her. The oblivious woman never realized that she was being solicited by an intoxicated prince, which made their meetings highly amusing, and taunting her even more so.

The door to the tavern opened just then. Expecting to see Lebryn, whom he had encountered here frequently (despite the fact that the man had a wife, although according to rumor she had been nowhere close to chaste upon their marriage), Amrothos knitted his brow when he instead saw boy of perhaps fifteen, tall and strong but looking distinctly uncomfortable in his new setting.

If the lad was not careful, he would find himself being raped by the bartender, Amrothos thought vaguely, keeping half an eye on him. Such a practice was not uncommon in Dol Amroth, for any boy that did not have the sense to stay away from a particularly infamous tavern was considered fair game by many of the patrons. Once or twice, the prince had considered experimenting with this strange derivation of pleasure, but he had only to see the pain on the recipient's face to know that he could not truly enjoy such an activity.

However, the boy lingered for just a few minutes before spotting him, and to Amrothos's surprise made his way over. In slow, deliberate Westron, he said, "The queen wishes to see you."

Amrothos resisted the urge to roll his eyes. As much as he loved his sister, she abhorred taverns and refused to hear anything about them, the result being that she did not realize how foolish it was to send a young boy into an area full of drunken men. She was quite intelligent in other regards, but anything so immoral was beyond her comprehension.

Or perhaps the Rohirrim did not partake in such behavior, Amrothos mused, noting that few of the customers were even looking in their direction. All the same, he thought it better to leave quickly. "Where is she?" he asked with a sigh, draining the last of his mug and setting it down on the table. He would have to return for more later.

"In Meduseld, my lord," the boy replied, glancing around nervously at his surroundings.

"Then let us go," Amrothos said, getting to his feet. Out of idle curiosity, he inquired, "Does your mother know where you are?"

"N-No, sir," the boy answered.

"Good, keep it that way," Amrothos responded. Seeing that the flirtatious barmaid was walking towards them, he swiftly steered the boy out of the tavern and shut the door in her disappointed face. The bright sunlight caused him to blink rapidly, though he had not been inside for half an hour. "Your name would be?"

"Wulfríd, sir."

"And your father?"

"Éothain, my lord. He is a Rider in the king's service."

Just like every other male in this town who was not a dotard. "Good, good," Amrothos repeated vaguely, stepping over a puddle of strong-smelling liquid. Wulfríd had hop awkwardly to avoid wetting his boots.

After emerging into the broader, yet only slightly-cleaner main street, the two of them parted ways, leaving Amrothos to make the journey to the Golden House alone. As he walked, ignoring the dark look Elfhelm the Marshal gave him in passing, he found his thoughts returning to Gúthwyn—as they had often done of late.

"There you are!"

Shading his eyes, Amrothos glanced up and saw Lothíriel, her arms crossed over her chest and her nose wrinkled as if she could smell the ale even from the top of the stairs. Which, come to think of it, was not entirely impossible.

"You desired my presence?" the youngest prince asked, climbing up to the landing so that they could be on equal ground. It pleased him to have the advantage of height, though that mattered little around Lothíriel.

"Yes. We need to speak in private," the queen said. Turning around, she beckoned him to follow, which he did, glad to move into the dim throne room. While they were walking, she inquired, "I suppose Wulfríd found you in one of those taverns?"

"Verily," Amrothos confirmed. "Is there a reason why you thought that sending a young boy to find me there would be a good idea?"

Lothíriel narrowed her eyes. "The men of Rohan do not engage in debauchery as they do in Dol Amroth," she informed him. "He was perfectly safe."

Amrothos rolled his eyes, but decided it would be better not to comment. They continued in silence until they came to the end of the great hall, where she sat down at a table in the corner and motioned for him to do the same.

"Éomer has noticed that you are trailing Gúthwyn," she announced without further preamble.

"Frankly, I am surprised it has taken him this long," Amrothos snorted. "I heard that the Rohirrim were simple—"

"This is my _husband_ we are discussing," Lothíriel retorted witheringly, "as well as his sister. Uncouth and wanton Gúthwyn may be, but Éomer loves her, and he does not want you to be with her."

And so they came to that moral dilemma.

Shifting uneasily, Amrothos merely said, "So, I need to employ more discretion."

"Yes," Lothíriel agreed. "Éomer did not acknowledge anything of the sort, but I would not be surprised if he had his friends watching you—or if they took up the task on their own. They all worship her as though she were better than Lúthien herself."

The bitter tone with which she spoke startled Amrothos, and for a minute he dared to wonder if her animosity towards Gúthwyn was not out of loyalty towards Elphir, but rather out of the burning hatred that was shining from her eyes. _What game are you playing, sister?_ he asked her silently.

"She is proving to be a very slippery catch," was all he said aloud, shifting his attention back to the matter at hand. "I had anticipated less of a challenge."

Lothíriel rolled her eyes. "Amrothos," she said, speaking slowly as if explaining to a child why they had to wear a cloak in the winter, "under our father and Elphir's surveillance, do you really think that she would be so idiotic as to let you have her while there is any chance of someone seeing her? She is not _that_ stupid, though she is certainly close."

Amrothos shook his head. "She is not stupid," he replied, "not if she can be this convincing."

Lothíriel paused, her gaze narrowing at him. "Of course it is an act," she said. "You do know this, correct?"

The youngest prince of Dol Amroth sighed. "Lothíriel, I trust your judgment," he began, "but I am beginning to doubt that she is as promiscuous as you have told me."

"Oh?" Lothíriel asked, her eyebrows raised. "Or are you merely losing interest?" Leaning closer, she added, "I will admit, she does not have the curves—"

"That is not what I meant," Amrothos snapped, irritated that everyone thought a woman had to have large breasts to be considered attractive by Imrahil's third son. (Which was not to say that an ample bosom hurt.) "The truth of the matter is, she hates me. Whenever I speak to her, she fabricates an excuse to leave the area. If she cannot, her responses are abrupt and contemptuous. She cringes at my touch, she looks nauseous when I reference anything inappropriate. She has even threatened to kill me on a number of occasions."

"She will not do that," Lothíriel said dismissively. "She esteems Father too highly."

"How comforting," Amrothos replied dryly. "If not for that, she would have slaughtered me long ago. She had me at sword-point during the tournament!"

"And yet she moved not a single muscle when you drew closer to her," Lothíriel answered. "Gúthwyn is weak. She is too docile to be a true threat to you, and moreover she is a harlot. Perhaps you are not approaching her from the right angle."

"I have given her every opportunity to flirt with me," Amrothos informed his sister, "and considering the number of times I have cornered her in the stables, one might say I have also given her every opportunity to lift her skirt for me. It does not seem right." His tone betrayed only half of his discomfort. "No one could fake such fear and hatred. She wants nothing to do with me. Maybe she has changed her ways."

"This is our brother's _honor_ we are saving," Lothíriel hissed. "Shall I repeat every circumstance under which she has proven herself totally slavish to her senses? Would you like me to recall those countless times where Cobryn has visited her chambers, alone and without anyone present to chaperone them? Or that night where he escorted her to her room, and never came back? Has she truly blinded you to her indiscretions? She was making a mockery of Elphir during the negotiations, and you defend her?"

"I am not defending her," Amrothos said quickly. Why was there a light sheen of sweat covering his brow? "But I cannot seduce her, and I will not rape her."

Lothíriel wrinkled her nose. "If you committed that crime, Éomer would execute you on the spot. I sincerely hope you were not thinking of risking your life."

"I mention it not because I fantasize about it"—which was the truth, for he could imagine nothing more appalling—"but because I am warning you not to ask me to do that."

"I would never do such a thing," Lothíriel snarled. "I am not a barbarian!"

"Lothíriel, you have changed," Amrothos countered. "You ruined Míriel's life, and now you turn your attentions to Gúthwyn—"

"Do not ever mention that woman's name again," Lothíriel hissed, her features foul with hatred. "She deserved everything that I did to her, and I only regret that I had not been able to do more!"

Amrothos nodded tersely. The mention of Míriel had slipped from his tongue; he had not meant to remind his sister of what Tulkadan's scheming spouse had done. While he was often inclined to treat lightly several matters that his father and brothers considered important, there were certain lines he did not cross—namely, Amarië's death and the events surrounding Lothíriel's fifteenth birthday.

"But Gúthwyn has done nothing," he said, hoping to turn the conversation back to safer ground. Unconsciously, his fingers began to drum upon the table.

"She shamed Elphir and would disgrace him even more with her antics, were they married!" Lothíriel cried, her face still flushed red with anger and embarrassment.

_Or is it because you are envious of the attention that Éomer lavishes on her?_ Amrothos was tempted to ask, but wisely bit his tongue. After all, what did he know about Lothíriel's situation? Perhaps he was the foolish one. Gúthwyn had no excuse for not being a virgin, and despite the fact that Amrothos had always said a whore might do his older brother good, he knew that Elphir could never love someone who was so impure. After Amarië, the poor man deserved the best, and Gúthwyn was clearly no longer a candidate in that regard.

Yet Amrothos could not ignore the terror with which Éomund's daughter looked upon him, her constantly quivering hands and her blatant distrust of him. Such emotion was making it increasingly more difficult to be with her, for he had never forced a woman to do anything that she did not wish to (not that one really ran into those problems at a whorehouse), and he had no intentions of starting.

"It might be better," he found himself suggesting, "if Elphir simply spoke to her."

"And what would that achieve?" Lothíriel demanded. "Of course she would deny the rumors—and what is more, she would wrap our brother around her finger faster than we could warn him against her. She has ways with men, Amrothos; every soldier in Éomer's army would die for her without a second thought."

Amrothos looked into his sister's eyes, burning brightly with hatred, and for the second time that day wondered if it was not worry for Elphir's happiness that consumed her, but rather jealousy of Gúthwyn. "Lothíriel—" he began.

"Elphir's honor is at stake," Lothíriel said vehemently. "We agreed to do what was best for him—are you backing out now because you do not find Gúthwyn as appealing as one of your other whores?"

"No!" Amrothos exclaimed, his sharp tone drawing the glances of a few servants. He barely noticed them, frustrated beyond belief that no one in his family could see past his love of taverns.

"Then what is wrong?" Lothíriel interrogated him.

Taking a deep breath, Amrothos said, "My heart warns against this—I do not think it right."

Lothíriel laughed. "Amrothos, since when have you had a heart? I know she is unattractive, but her appearance is not that ghastly!"

Amrothos gave up. He could not explain the foreboding he felt, nor did he think Lothíriel would ever understand it. On the whole, it was better to grit his teeth and get through the week than attempt to sort through the confusion in his mind, which likely as not was just a result of all the drinking he had been doing lately. Maybe Lothíriel was right. Maybe Gúthwyn was simply playing hard to get, as most women tended to do at one point or another—and far from a newcomer to that game, he had always enjoyed a challenge.

"Fine," he ground out, now longingly dreaming of the tavern he had left behind. "One more week."

"That is all that is necessary," Lothíriel promised, a relieved grin on her face. "Thank you, brother. I promise, you will not regret this."

"Right," Amrothos said half-heartedly, getting to his feet.

"Where are you going?" she inquired, but they both already knew the answer.

"I need a drink," he announced, and left her sitting there, an odd expression in her gleaming eyes.


	108. Elphir's Debate

**A/N:** I'm so sorry this took a ridiculously long time to get posted! I've been incredibly busy studying for midterms and that whole annoying real life thing, including work and sports and etc. Luckily, exams are almost over (I have one more on Monday), so hopefully I'll be able to devote more time to writing afterwards!

P.S. I'd like to acknowledge Heath Ledger's sudden passing on January 22nd, 2008. I haven't seen many of his movies, but his performances were excellent in the ones I did, and it's horrible that his life ended so soon. Rest in peace, Heath.

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Eight:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Eight**

On the last day of his miserable visit to Rohan, Elphir awoke with an already brooding disposition, his mind fixed on Gúthwyn as though he had never stopped thinking of her since their confrontation—which, despite having taken place nearly a week ago, was not too far from the truth. His mood only worsened when he turned over and saw his son, lying as far away from him as he possibly could without falling off of the bed. Alphros had been horrified by the way his father had behaved towards Gúthwyn throughout the brief course of their meeting, and he was punishing Elphir for it in the only way he knew how: the silent, or less talkative than usual, treatment.

Elphir sighed, fully aware that he deserved Alphros's chastisement. The disgraceful, heated manner in which he had acted around Éomund's daughter was a constant source of self-loathing, for it was rare that he lost control over his emotions like that and his attack on her character, debatable though her morality was, had been uncalled for. He was ashamed of himself for his insolence, disgusted that he had let Amrothos goad him into calling Gúthwyn a whore.

_Why can I never think straight around her?_ he asked himself wretchedly. He had sworn to avoid all contact with her after the tournament, to restrain from cursing her as he so desired, but the moment she had looked at him with those wide, innocent eyes, all of his promises had come to naught. Her standing before him, steadfastly denying all of his accusations—and moreover, with Alphros at her side—was an image that would not soon leave his mind.

He wanted so desperately to believe her, but the evidence was irrefutable. Her holding hands with Cobryn, supposedly only a friend; the permission he and other men had to visit her chambers; the abominable dress she had worn, the lack of judgment she had displayed appalling; all of the times she had allowed Amrothos to touch her without denouncing him… The latter was almost worse than all the other offenses combined, but it hurt Elphir that the woman he had dreamed of taking gently to their marriage bed had instead turned around and given herself to the soldiers, either unable to wait until their wedding night or revealing her true colors at last.

_Why?_ he wondered again, for what must have been the millionth time. _Why did you not write to me of your faithlessness? Why did you lead me on with false pretenses of your good character?_

Her lack of communication, more than any of the unpleasant revelations he had had concerning Gúthwyn this year, was what troubled him the most. Before she had broken off all contact with him, they had corresponded regularly, each letter of hers bringing cheer to an otherwise dull world of politics and courtly affairs. While she was not the most eloquent scribe, her honesty, affection, and genuine interest in his life far outweighed anything wanting in her writing. To entertain the idea that all of this had been a lie, that every time she set down the quill it was only to take up a new consort, was more than he could bear.

Groaning, Elphir rose from his bed and dressed, again wondering if he should approach Gúthwyn, confront her once and for all, and learn the truth of the matter. On the one hand, he was furious with her for continuing to pretend that it was she who had been wronged, and that she had not been unfaithful when the extent of her attachment to the soldiers and to Cobryn was obvious even to a blind man.

On the other, he could not subdue the small, stubborn voice in the back of his head that insisted upon Gúthwyn's innocence, that there must have been some horrible mistake and that she never would have risked breaking their marriage negotiations. Furthermore, he felt that he owed her at least a chance to try and defend herself, given how terribly he had acted towards her. As a prince, he was obligated to at least make amends for his conduct; as a person, he desperately desired to speak with her, despite his mind warning against it.

If such agitation was not enough, there was also the fact that today was his last chance to talk to her. His family and the nobility would leave tomorrow morning, and if one took into account the farewell feast that Éomer had planned for tonight, it was safe to say that they would awaken too late to have time for anything other than hurried goodbyes. If Elphir was to overcome his continual self-doubt and his pride, he did not want to do so only to have no time to put his thoughts into action. Therefore, he would have to make the monumental decision before dining at Meduseld that evening. The cycle of him working up the courage to speak to her, and then losing it again—which had been running the entire visit, with almost alarming rapidity—would end tonight, one way or another.

More to put off solving this dilemma than anything, Elphir finished adjusting his tunic and leaned over to wake up his son. "Alphros," he said as the boy moaned, muttering something that sounded like "go away" before pulling the blankets over his head. Smiling sadly, Elphir tugged the sheets back down and repeated, "Alphros, come, it is time to get up."

Gradually Alphros came to, opening his mouth—likely to ask what they were having for breakfast—before remembering that he was still angry with Elphir and resolutely closing it.

"Shall I help you get dressed?" Elphir offered, ignoring the clenching sensation in his stomach.

Alphros shook his head and set about putting a rebelliously mismatched outfit on, refusing to ask for assistance even though it took him the better part of five minutes to do his bootlaces. When at last he was done, he made a great show of leaving the tent before his father, but Elphir knew that he would remain within sight until they had reached Meduseld. Alphros's petulance was not made any less hurtful by this awareness, yet deep down Elphir felt that he deserved whatever grief the boy was putting him through.

Eventually they stepped into the shade of the Golden Hall, Alphros stalking ahead of Elphir until he had sat down at his grandfather's side.

"Good morning, Father," Elphir greeted Imrahil. To the other man's left was Éomer, who still considered Elphir only slightly better than the scum on his boots, and who merely nodded when similar acknowledgments were extended to him.

"King Éomer," Alphros said eagerly, bouncing up and down in his seat, "will there be jugglers at the feast tonight?"

The performers had been present at the past couple of dinners, to Alphros's eternal delight.

"There will," Éomer promised, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he gazed upon his nephew. Alphros let out a whoop of delight, pumping his fist into the air and narrowly missing his grandfather. Éomer's indulgent expression vanished when he happened to meet Elphir's eyes, replaced by a cold, unforgiving look.

_Perhaps you should have noticed that your sister was sleeping with your entire army before entering into marriage negotiations with my father,_ Elphir thought, equally surly. He had long ago grown irritated with Éomer's attitude towards him, and considered his relations with the man to be permanently ruined—to no great loss on his part.

The rest of the meal passed almost without incident. Alphros continued to pester Éomer about dinner, to the point where Elphir inwardly cringed each time his son opened his mouth, but the king bore his attentions with surprisingly good grace. Lothíriel joined them in the midst of Alphros's questioning, Elfwine already squirming out of her arms, whereupon Alphros began interrogating his aunt about the younger prince.

With his nephew and wife thus occupied, Éomer's focus soon shifted to Elphir's offensive presence, the result being that the prince of Dol Amroth found himself the recipient of several unsubtle glowers. Deciding that it would be better for all parties if he simply left, Elphir made to begin the lengthy process of extricating Alphros from his conversation with Lothíriel.

Before he could do so, however, a figure appeared over Éomer's shoulder, so slight and slender that Elphir did not see them until it was too late: Gúthwyn.

"Hello, brother," she said, her eyes flashing when they moved over him to rest upon Elphir. Taken aback by her ire, Elphir barely heard Éomer's response as he stiffened in surprise. Then he recalled how furious she had been with him after their last encounter—mortified on behalf of the children, who admittedly had not been the ideal audience, she had finally lost her temper with him and stormed away in disgust. A small pang, one that he had strived to ignore ever since his arrival, resurfaced long enough to make him regret his words to her.

He had to apologize for his behavior. There was no way around it. No matter how often he told himself that Gúthwyn was a whore, that he was better off without her, and that he would only make things worse if he attempted to reconcile, he could not override the tenacious part of him that refused to let go of the memories they had together, that refused to believe the woman he had so loved was capable of such malice.

His mind was just coming to this conclusion when Elfwine caused a minor disturbance by shrieking "Gúthy!" at the top of his lungs and attempting to fling himself into his aunt's arms. Lothíriel barely managed to restrain him in time; Gúthwyn jumped as though scalded and, with a frightened glance in Éomer's direction, stuttered, "I-I did not see him…"

"Need Gúthy," Elfwine implored his mother, trying to wriggle out of her hold. "Need Gúthy_now_!"

Éomer said something in Rohirric to Gúthwyn, whose face was steadily growing more contorted. With a strangled sound of acquiescence she nodded, wiping at her eyes as though they were irritating her. Elphir watched her in silence, torn between stopping her and letting her go, but when she began hurrying towards the doors, a newfound strength emerged in him and he found himself calling, "Gúthwyn, wait!"

He made to rise, only mildly conscious of the others' stares, yet Éomer beat him to it. When Gúthwyn paused and turned back, confusion written across her vulnerable face, Éomer said firmly, "Go. You are excused."

Gúthwyn inclined her head and left the hall; Éomer waited until the guards had closed the doors behind her and rounded on Elphir.

"Stay away from my sister," he snarled, a foul look in his eyes. "You have no right to seek her out."

His father's furious tone the icing on the cake of his bad day, Elfwine began sobbing. "I want Gúthy!" he wailed miserably.

Momentarily distracted, Éomer and Lothíriel gaped at their son. "He said 'I,'" Éomer ventured finally, grinning.

"I want Gúthy!" Elfwine shrieked in response. "Gúthy _now_!"

Lothíriel heaved an exasperated sigh. "Perhaps he might calm down if I read to him," she decided, getting to her feet. Elfwine screamed, thoroughly making the most of his temper tantrum, to which Lothíriel reacted by taking him out of the room as quickly as possible. Her departure left Elphir, Éomer, and Imrahil to suffer an awkward silence, which mercifully ended when the latter said:

"It is a wonderful day for a walk—Elphir, would you care to help an old man along the street?"

Elphir knew fully well that his father only played that ridiculous card when he wanted to have a conversation away from the ears of the company they were currently in, and he had a very good idea what Imrahil was so intent on discussing. Unwilling to give in without a fight, he coughed and replied, "I was thinking of exercising Eärocco…"

The feeble excused withered and died in the heated look his father gave him. "I insist," the other man said lightly.

"As you wish," Elphir said with a sigh, having no other choice than to accept the fact that he was stuck. Why he had even resisted in the first place, he was unsure. "Alphros, come—"

Imrahil smiled at the admittedly pathetic attempt to restrict the topics covered during their imminent conversation and said, "Alphros, would you like to play with Haiweth and the other children today?"

Alphros's face, crestfallen after Lothíriel's exit, lit up once more. He jumped out of his seat so quickly that he almost fell over. "Can I, Grandfather?" he asked, and then corrected himself. "May I? Please?"

"I would prefer—" Elphir began, but speaking over him, Imrahil told Alphros:

"If you have finished your food, then you may."

Alphros stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth, and announced a rather garbled but undeniable affirmation. Chuckling, Imrahil bid farewell to Éomer, who mentioned something about checking on Lothíriel and also left the table. Elphir, Alphros, and Imrahil then crossed the threshold, emerging into the bright sunshine. Alphros was in high spirits, leaping down the stairs and having time to run on the ground in circles while waiting for the others.

While Elphir was amused by his son's antics, he was still wary of letting Alphros associate with the likes of Haiweth: their children interacting was enough of a reason for him and Gúthwyn to run into each other, a situation he did not want to instigate without having thoroughly prepared himself for it.

Against the popularity of Imrahil's decision, however, his reluctance could hold no power, and before long Alphros had reunited happily with Haiweth. The two of them were off with hardly a word to either of the princes, although Haiweth lingered enough to throw a frightened glance at Imrahil.

"I would appreciate it if you would refrain from overriding my decisions concerning whom my son is permitted to see," Elphir said once Alphros and Haiweth had disappeared, his tone icy.

"Elphir, that boy has been bored to death for the past month," Imrahil replied curtly, motioning for them to move to a deserted portion of the street. "He is only eight—let him enjoy the company of someone his own age for once."

"He has friends at home," Elphir retorted, stung by his father's accusation.

"All of whom are being pressured by their parents to get as close as they possibly can to the future heir of Dol Amroth," Imrahil finished cynically. "I could count on one hand the number of boys who are genuinely loyal to him. Luckily, the others' witless flattery has not gone to his head. However," he continued, after pausing to exchange greetings with a passing Erkenbrand, "here in Rohan the children could care less that he his a prince—all they want is someone who can keep up with them. And that, I find, is one area in which we could look to the Rohirrim for improvement."

Elphir narrowed his eyes. "If you think so poorly of your own subjects, perhaps you should become one of Éomer's. You certainly seem to enjoy Elfwine's company more than you do the entire court."

He meant no slight to his nephew, of course, who could not help the fact that he was so endearing to adults, but he wished at times that his father would be less obvious with his contempt for the nobility.

"I consider my grandsons to provide more intelligent conversation than the vast majority of the court, yes," Imrahil mused. "And they certainly have better manners."

"Elfwine's entire vocabulary consists of _Gúthy_," Elphir could not resist pointing out, embarrassed on behalf of his sister for the child's dominant attachment to Éomund's daughter. It was very obvious, to Elphir at least, that Lothíriel bore a hurt expression whenever Elfwine expressed a preference for Gúthwyn over her—which happened rather frequently.

"Your behavior towards her has been despicable," Imrahil said bluntly.

Elphir inwardly groaned, realizing his mistake.

"Even Amrothos," Imrahil added, "has not given me such cause for embarrassment this year."

"How else would you expect me to treat her," Elphir demanded suddenly, his anger flaring up again, "when she slept with every man in—"

Imrahil stopped abruptly, his wrathful countenance enough to make Elphir do the same. "You are a fool, son," the ruler hissed, "if you believe any of the rumors that Lothíriel is spreading about her! Do you think I am not aware of my daughter's schemes? I know exactly what she is doing, and were I not without proof I would have stopped it long ago!"

"Lothíriel has nothing to do with this," Elphir spat. "She does not gossip. Gúthwyn has brought this shame upon herself! Why do you blame your own offspring for her problems?"

"Because I am observant," Imrahil retorted, "and the woman you accuse of being a whore could not possibly be more frightened and confused by Amrothos's disgraceful treatment of her than she is now. Lothíriel does not hate her for your sake, she hates her out of jealousy!"

Elphir could not help it; he laughed. "Jealousy?" he echoed incredulously. "Your imagination overexerts itself, Father. What has Lothíriel to be jealous of—two illegitimate children and a dependency upon the goodwill of her brother?"

"Elfwine and Éomer's love," Imrahil answered, choosing to ignore Elphir's scathing comments, "of which much is devoted to Gúthwyn. Are you so ignorant that you cannot see this?"

"My sister is not so petty as that," Elphir growled. "Gúthwyn is a whore, Father, and the sooner you stop vindicating her the happier I will be!"

"You are condemning an innocent woman of a crime she did not commit, based on the evidence of another who would do anything to destroy her! I have the measure of my daughter's character far more than you do, Elphir, and it is to Lady Míriel and the rest of the court that I owe its ruin. Lothíriel is no longer the person she once was—her hostility towards Gúthwyn is so ill-concealed that I am shocked Éomer has not yet discerned her true feelings. Tell me, son, what part did she play in the ending of your marriage negotiations?"

"Is that it?" Elphir asked disbelievingly. "You suspect your own daughter of fabricating information about my betrothed, and using it to alienate me from her? Let us pretend for a moment, then, that that was so—how do you propose to explain the fact that I have seen her holding hands with Cobryn, not to mention letting Amrothos touch her without a word of protest? If Lothíriel was lying, then she did a rather poor job, in that everything she conveyed was the truth!"

"Are you telling me that she did speak to you about Gúthwyn?" Imrahil pressed. "Answer me: did she, or did she not?"

"Of course she did!" Elphir exclaimed. "She congratulated me several times, and always expressed the greatest hopes that our marriage would be successful. That was all." A_t least,_ he thought grimly, _all that she intended for me to see_. "Why do you insist on blaming her, Father?"

Imrahil appeared to be biting back a sharp-tongued response; visibly counting to ten, he took a deep breath and said, "Something is not right. You were in love with Gúthwyn, I know it."

"We all make mistakes," Elphir ground out.

Imrahil shook his head slowly. "So it would seem," he murmured, more to himself than to Elphir.  
"Now that you are done slandering my sister," Elphir said tightly, "I am going to go to the training grounds."

"I am not slandering her," Imrahil replied. "I am warning you about her. She loathes Gúthwyn, and I have heard that Nethiel is the main source of the rumors concerning the king's sister. We all know that Nethiel does not have the wit to think for herself, but just enough to take orders from Lothíriel."

"Wonderful," Elphir snapped. "If you are done, I will excuse myself and leave you to your conspiracy theories."

Without waiting for a response, he stalked up the road towards the stables. As it tended to with Gúthwyn, each step he took away from a blatant discussion about her caused his anger to dissipate, gradually replaced by a sense of shame that he had so easily let his emotions take control of him. Imrahil's unswerving defense of her, at the expense of his own children, had caused Elphir to lash out and once again call Gúthwyn a whore, when earlier he had been ready to confront her and possibly even revise his convictions. It frightened him that his feelings concerning her changed so abruptly, so violently; he used to pride himself on not letting his passions govern him, yet now they did so with ease.

_This is why you have to speak to her!_ the inner, pro-Gúthwyn voice urged him on. _You shall never rest until you learn why she abandoned communications with you, or indeed until you know the truth of her relations with other men! Could it be that she is only thought to service the men, when in reality she is as innocent as your father suggests?_

_I have _seen_ Gúthwyn holding hands with Cobryn,_ he staunchly reminded himself. _There can be no accounting for that._

_Is she forbidden to show affection to her friends?_ the other part of him asked. _The people of Rohan are far less conservative than they are in Dol Amroth; you should be aware of that, based on the letters that Gúthwyn did write to you and the swiftness with which she grew attached to you! Children hold hands with each other and free of repercussions—why should it not be the same now?_

_Then what about Amrothos?_ he interrogatedhimself. _What woman, if she were truly pure, would endure his disgusting antics without a word of protest? Why does she not push him away, if her morals are other than they have been said to be?_

_Perhaps she fears her brother's displeasure if she fails to accommodate their guests,_ the voice of reason suggested.

_Éomer would never force his sister to suffer through Amrothos's perverted idea of flirting, regardless of how much he desires to make Father's visit enjoyable,_ Elphir told himself. _If he were not so used to her behavior, he would have slaughtered Amrothos by now! Nay, he holds back because it is not unusual for Gúthwyn to be so open with men._

_Or because he does not realize the extent to which Amrothos is soliciting her,_ the other part of him insisted. _Lothíriel herself has remarked that Éomer is not the most observant of humans; if Gúthwyn is too afraid to say anything to him, it is likely that he will never notice anything out of the ordinary in the manner of their interactions. Mayhap she herself denies it, for worry that she will place too many burdens on Éomer's shoulders._

If Elphir were to accept Gúthwyn's innocence, that was the argument upon which he would rely, for he had long ago observed that his former betrothed was always mindful to put her siblings' happiness and comfort before her own. Was it so impossible that she did take offense to Amrothos's attention, and yet was not openly condemning it because she was unwilling to taint her brother's reputation in the eyes of his guests?

_I am not sure what to believe anymore,_ he at last admitted. For months he had been firmly convinced that Gúthwyn was a harlot, and had seen his expectations confirmed during his visit to her home, but surely his father's unswerving advocacy for her blamelessness could not be unmerited? Imrahil did not form hasty opinions—his persuasions were based on logical thought, recollection of past experiences, and a sense of justice and righteousness that Elphir privately thought was unparalleled by even King Elessar.

Besides, there was the simple fact that Elphir _wanted_ a reconciliation with Gúthwyn. He was willing to bend over backwards in apology, to publicly denounce her accusers (himself included), if only he could discover that this whole situation was a horrible mistake. The woman he had once loved was so inconsistent with the woman he now hated that only one of them could be Gúthwyn, and he would give anything for it to be the former.

_Then speak to her,_ the voice said. _Speak to her, and determine which one it is. Only then will you be at peace._

Abruptly changing directions, Elphir began walking back towards his tent. He would not let his emotions ruin this pivotal encounter; he would retire to his quarters and carefully plan all that he would say to Gúthwyn, as well as what he would do when he had learned the answers to his queries. He was determined that nothing would spoil their meeting, that they should emerge from it with a closer understanding of each other.

Lunch, he decided; that was when he would find her.

_Please,_ he prayed to the Valar, _let me have been wrong about her._


	109. Amrothos's Farewell

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Nine:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Nine**

"Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Gúthwyn I see, awake as the sun is about to warm the top of my head?"

Smiling a little, Éomund's daughter lifted her head to see Cobryn standing in front of her, an amused—if slightly puzzled—expression on his face. "Nay, it is no mirage."

He sat down beside her on the edge of the well, where she had gone after her disastrous attempt at joining Éomer for breakfast, inquiring, "And what inspired you to rise so early?"

Gúthwyn shrugged. "I never fell asleep," she admitted, shifting uneasily.

Cobryn frowned. "Did you have a nightmare?" he asked quietly.

Gúthwyn hesitated, and then nodded.

"Would you like to talk about it?" he questioned when she did not elucidate.

"Haldor," Gúthwyn informed him shortly, not wanting to divulge further details—especially about this particular dream. Casting about for something else to say, she finally recalled what she had intended to discuss with him a few days ago, and had forgotten until now. "Hammel ordered a book."

Taken aback by the abrupt subject change, Cobryn blinked and repeated, "A book?"

Gúthwyn made a gesture of confirmation. "I saw a messenger give it to him. Did you loan him money?"

Puzzled, Cobryn shook his head. "I did not," he answered. "He never mentioned purchasing anything."

_How did he pay for it?_ Gúthwyn wondered, knitting her brow. Having no money herself, she had never given any to the children—Éomer provided everything they needed, a sore spot for her that she was unable to soothe. Used to being solely responsible for Hammel and Haiweth's welfare, it nettled her that she was incapable of doing so in her own home. She was utterly dependent on her brother; then again, when had she ever been truly _in_dependent? Unless one counted the time she had survived on her own during the four-month journey from Mordor to Hollin, never.

For as long as she could remember, she had always relied upon someone, latching onto them as her safety line and floundering when that line was broken. Théodred she had loved fiercely, cherishing him as if he were her own brother (or perhaps more so). At Isengard, Cobryn had been her guardian, keeping her from making foolish mistakes and always there to listen to her problems.

Borogor… no, she could not think of him. Part of her had died when he left her; it would never come back and she felt its absence every day of her life. Rather than cling to his memory she pushed it away, reaching frantically for someone else… yes, Boromir. He would do. Boromir had also taken care of her, in his own way—though lacking in the ability to comfort, he had saved her life on one occasion and helped her on numerous others.

And now she had Éomer, who cared for her when she was sick, supported the children, and no longer wanted her to marry. In return, all he asked was that she eat a decent meal each day, something she could not even do. Although she often begrudged him for being overprotective, in reality she needed him to survive.

Realizing she had not spoken for some time, she cleared her throat and said brightly, "Imrahil's people are leaving tomorrow!"

"Aye, they are," Cobryn affirmed, though not without another concerned look. "And you shall be reunited with Elfwine."

This last prospect was remarkably successful at cheering her up. Gúthwyn beamed at the thought of seeing her nephew again, yet sobered when she recalled their earlier encounter. "He was at breakfast today," she remarked, her heart twisting at the memory of the poor child. "He wanted me to hold him, but Éomer told me to go outside while they finished eating."

It had nearly torn her in two to hear Elfwine demanding her, to hear him saying "need Gúthy" and being unable to calm him down. While she knew her punishment had been intended for her to regret entering the tournament—and it was certainly making her miserable—she felt it horribly unfair for Elfwine to be so affected, and wondered why Éomer could not have decided on something less cruel to his son.

Sympathetic to her plight, Cobryn replied, "In less than a day you will be able to share his company."

Gúthwyn nodded. "Less than a day," she repeated, sighing.

"I would make some sort of comforting gesture, but for the fact that it would undoubtedly be misconstrued as us arranging a midnight meeting," Cobryn said, smirking.

Éomund's daughter laughed. "Perhaps you should not even be sitting next to me," she suggested jokingly. "I am sure that would be evidence enough for certain people."

"The last I heard of Lady Míriel was her maid complaining that she had been forced to pack a whole trunk's worth of gowns twice, the first arrangement not having been satisfactory," Cobryn chuckled. "She will not be paying attention to us for awhile."

Gúthwyn winced, imagining what it was like to serve someone so repulsive as Lady Míriel. "That woman is horrible," she said vehemently, pity for Lothíriel renewed within her. As rude as the queen was on occasion, no one deserved to be subjected to Lady Míriel's cruelty.

Cobryn raised his eyebrows at her tone, but chose not to comment. She had yet to reveal to him what she had overheard, for she was still analyzing it and trying to sort out her feelings on the matter—not to mention figure out what Lothíriel might attempt to do to her, when she was clearly following in the footsteps of one so cunning.

"What are your plans for today?" she finally asked, covering the pause.

"I have a meeting with Éomer and the other advisors later in the afternoon," he told her. "Your brother wants to reassess our crop stores to see how much we depleted in hosting the nobles."

"Do you think it will be a difficult winter?" she inquired anxiously.

"Unless the harvest is worse than usual, it should not be excessively bad," Cobryn responded. "I would anticipate a food shortage early next year, but as long as we ration carefully I believe it will be easily overcome."

Gúthwyn glowered, angry with the Dol Amroth delegation for costing her people so much. As the king's sister, she was in no danger of experiencing the effects Cobryn was speaking of—especially when Éomer was so insistent upon her gaining weight—but it infuriated her to no end that the Eorlingas were entirely dependent upon the outcome of the harvest.

"Do not worry," Cobryn said, seeing the look on her face. "Your people are strong."

Gúthwyn grinned in a rather feebly way. This was undoubtedly true, especially of all her friends, but the old and the young would be the hardest hit if it came to hunger.

"What about yourself?" Cobryn queried, changing the subject. "What are you intending to do this afternoon?"

"I am going to visit—and hopefully ride—Sceoh," Gúthwyn answered. She had decided upon the activity during the early hours of the morning, knowing that it would calm the nerves still residing within her from the nightmare. In addition, the stableboys often returned to their homes for lunch, meaning that she would have some time for herself. She was greatly anticipating the event, and had already changed into leggings and a tunic.

"Cobryn!"

The two of them glanced up, their eyes lighting on Aldor. "My lady," the advisor said respectfully, inclining his head.

"Aldor," Gúthwyn acknowledged, guessing what it was he wanted with her friend. Cobryn, however, was frowning. "Is there really a crisis this early in the morning?"

"There are always crises," Aldor said with a wave of his hand. "Cobryn, will you be able to look over the charts on the Mark's livestock before the council? We need a report—I have been placed in charge of this month's expenses, otherwise I would have done it myself."

"I will start now," Cobryn promised, and then looked at Gúthwyn. "My apologies," he spoke, "but the stuffy indoors calls."

Gúthwyn made a face at him.

Aldor thanked Cobryn and returned to Meduseld, but the younger man purposely lingered. Éomund's daughter knitted her brow in puzzlement at this, though Cobryn's delay was not a mystery for long.

"Gúthwyn," he said when the advisor was firmly out of earshot, "Aldor is planning to bring up the subject of your eligibility for marriage at the end of this meeting."

Gúthwyn froze, her face turning pale with dread. "W-Why?" she demanded shakily, her stomach tying itself in knots.

"If you were married to someone within a foreign royal family," Cobryn answered, "we could have counted on another source of aid during the hard winter months, for it is tasteless to host Imrahil and then appeal to him for grain and other foodstuffs. Aldor wishes to guard against future troubles by allying ourselves with another realm, especially when our relations with Dol Amroth's nobility have soured so much."

"No," Gúthwyn said immediately. "Éomer would never sell me for the profit of his kingdom."

"That is why Aldor intends to cater to his brotherly instincts," Cobryn responded. "I overheard him discussing it with Aldhelm this morning—he knows Éomer wishes to see you wedded, and even though his reasons are largely different it still gives Aldor a considerable advantage. All he has to do is convince Éomer that marriage would benefit you, which he has done once before."

"Why can they not let the matter rest?" Gúthwyn cried, eliciting glances from passerby. Lowering her voice in case any of them were from Dol Amroth, she added, "I have told Éomer hundreds, thousands of times that I do not desire a husband! He seems to think that a union would make me happy, when in fact I would rather die than subject myself to it! Is it so difficult for him to comprehend that?"

"He only wants what is best for you," Cobryn reminded her. "He believes that he is doing you a service. However, it may be that our fretting will come to naught. I shall do my best to deter Aldor from the motion, and it is quite possible that if I bore Éomer enough with an account of the livestock he will be in no mood to debate any further."

Gúthwyn thanked him emphatically, but she was fully aware that Éomer was ready to wrangle over her prospects at any hour of the day. He was determined to find a spouse for her, yet at the same time the man had to satisfy his own stringent expectations. Elphir had, once. She prayed that Éomer would never come close to obtaining a match who rivaled the prince's former chivalry.

"Do not worry," Cobryn said again, getting to his feet. "I will do everything in my power to turn Éomer aside from such negotiations."

"If you manage that," Gúthwyn replied unhappily, "you are wasting your time as an advisor, and should join the ranks of the Valar instead."

Cobryn shook his head. "I have lost faith in them," he said. "I doubt they are concerned with our affairs."

Gúthwyn did not know how to respond to that, for she believed that the Valar were watching over her—some days more than others—but she was also fully aware that Cobryn's disillusionment came from seeing his wife and unborn child being taken away from him. She was tempted to ask if Cobryn had ever considered marrying another woman, besides herself if she needed to escape a particularly unwelcome suitor, yet she had never been brave enough to broach the subject.

Her chance came and went, for Cobryn bid farewell to her, returning to the Golden Hall and soon disappearing from sight. Exhaling, Gúthwyn also rose, her spirits considerably dampened, and began walking towards the stables. Dark thoughts of marriage led her to memories of trembling in another's bed, and so it was that by the time she pushed open the doors, her mind had returned full circle to her nightmare.

The vividness of this dream was, in part, the reason she was visiting her horse, for she could distinctly recall being in the stables and she needed to reassure herself that she was safe there. Why her nightmare had taken place outside of Sceoh's stall, she did not know—nearly all of the previous ones had transported her to either the cage, if she was granted a reprieve from Haldor in favor of the Wargs, or directly to the Elf's bed, where she would be forced to relive the painful memories again and again.

To have him invade her home, even if it was only in a dream, was a source of disturbance that she had still not been able to shake away hours later. She had not seen his face as he cornered her and forced himself upon her, which had only made the act even more torturous. Almost moreso than she was frightened, she was disheartened. Why was she so unable to free herself of his grip? Five years had passed since his death, and six since he had last called her to his tent—should she not have cast him from her mind by now?

"Have I gone mad?" she whispered to the empty stables, wondering why her sleep was continually disrupted by nightmares. She wanted nothing more than to be free of them, but every time she started to think that perhaps they had stopped, they were renewed with a vengeance.

Sighing, she made her way over to Sceoh, intending on a long grooming and riding session that would hopefully enable her to forget Haldor's malice. Her walk was stiff, reflecting the dull ache between her legs that sometimes occurred after more brutal dreams. Whenever she was reminded of this pain, she thanked the Valar that her marriage negotiations with Elphir had fallen through, even if their companionship had had to pay the price for it.

"Hello, my friend," she murmured to Sceoh, who had been watching her sort through her tormented musings. "How are you today?"

There was no answer, of course, but at least he did not back away from her. Gúthwyn walked slowly towards his stall, careful to make no sudden movements, and when he did not flinch she opened the door. Taking his brush from its hook on the wall, she held it out for his approval and gradually set about combing his mane. Her touch was gently, yet even then it was a few moments before he settled down and became perfectly still.

With the task in front of her occupying the greater part of her attention, Éomund's daughter found that the memories of Haldor were receding, though by no means had they faded entirely. Ever and anon her hands would tremble, echoes of the terror she had felt when Haldor had pinned her to the wall with his arms and had his way with her, made all the worse by Cobryn's recent warning that she might have to face such discomfort again. Shame burned brightly inside of her, that she was having these dreams; they were humiliating, degrading, and disgusting, yet her mind insisted on retaining them and refused to let go.

_Why me?_ she wondered, not for the first time. Why had Haldor singled her out and treated her so horribly? He had said often—and cruelly, as if expecting her to find it insulting—that she gave him no pleasure, and surely there were other ways of subduing her besides raping her? The children alone would have given him all the power he needed. Why did he have to make it absolute?

Her thoughts were mercifully interrupted by the sound of the stable doors swinging open, but such relief was short-lived: Amrothos swaggered into her field of vision, his characteristic smirk firmly in place. She did not notice that it was rather forced, such was her anxiety at the sight of him. _Not now,_ she pleaded, in no mood to deal with the prince after her nightmare.

"You do seem to hide in the stables quite often," Amrothos observed, glancing around as if looking for someone else. "Am I interrupting a tryst?"

Why, why, _why_ had she left Framwine in her room?

"No," Éomund's daughter said shortly. "But you are intruding upon me nonetheless, so your departure would be appreciated."

"Scathing," Amrothos remarked with a grin. "However, not motivating enough for me to exert myself and walk all that long distance to the doors."

Gúthwyn glared at him. "I think you can manage," she said acidly.

Amrothos sighed. "For a whore," he replied, "you are _very_ picky… a prince has been soliciting you for weeks and yet you dismiss him in favor of cripples!"

Gúthwyn stiffened. "What are you saying?" she demanded, halting her brush mid-stroke and even forgetting to be offended by his slight to Cobryn and Tun.

Sceoh snorted in discontent.

Amrothos smiled, a slow, lazy gesture that tied knots in the pit of her stomach. "Please tell me that you are not as unobservant as you are suggesting," he replied, an amused gleam in his eyes.

"What are you saying?" Gúthwyn repeated, this time more shrilly.

"I think you know fully well," Amrothos answered. "I must admit, you had me fooled for a few dark hours, but I have since seen the light again."

Gúthwyn stared at him blankly, now utterly confused. _It would only take me a few seconds to reach the doors from here, if I ran,_ the unbidden thought crossed her mind.

Amrothos chuckled at her expression. "There is no need to keep pretending," he announced, leaning over the side of the stall so that he was even closer to her. Gúthwyn found herself edging away from him, not liking the tone of his voice. "You and I are the only ones here."

"Soon to be just yourself," Éomund's daughter at last managed to speak. With fingers fumbling far more than they had around Legolas in the past year—why were they so twitchy all of a sudden?—she hung up Sceoh's brush and bade him a quick Rohirric farewell, adding in the Common Tongue to Amrothos, "I am leaving."

It went against every instinct in her body to move near him so that she could open the door, but as she did this he made room for her. Exhaling gladly, Gúthwyn shut the stall entrance behind her and was about to walk away when, much to her trepidation, his arm stretched out and stopped her from going any further.

"What do you want?" she snapped, unable to keep the frightened note out of her voice.

"To say goodbye," Amrothos responded, appearing to take the greatest delight in her discomfort. "Unfortunately for you and all of the other women in this pathetic city, I have decided to spend this evening getting fantastically drunk, and while it is sure to be far more entertaining than anything I have done this week, it will regrettably make personal farewells impossible—or, at the very least, inarticulate."

Gúthwyn knitted her brow, forgetting in her anxiety to be angry at his insult to Edoras. "Then wait until tomorrow," she said, bewildered. "I have to—"

"Tomorrow shall be spent sleeping off tonight," Amrothos informed her. "I can assure you that I will not, in any way, shape, or form, be remotely close to sober. My father wishes for my conduct to be somewhat appropriate; thus, I am before you now, when standing is still in my vocabulary."

Gúthwyn barely resisted rolling her eyes. "Fine," she muttered irritably. "Say your farewells, and be done with it." _And never speak to me again_, she added silently.

"Excellent," Amrothos murmured. Before Gúthwyn knew what was happening, he had propped his free hand against the stall door on the other side of her, effectively trapping her between him and the wall, and was leaning towards her at an alarming angle. "I have been waiting for this all month," he said, and slowly bent down to kiss her.

Letting out a whimper of fright, Gúthwyn turned her head at the last moment, so that his lips landed in vain on her cheek. Her heart was pounding as he pulled away, looking at her quizzically. His breath was tainted with alcohol.

"N-No," she whispered, awful waves of realization crashing down on her, too late for her to do anything but marvel at her stupidity. Amrothos had never been interested in helping her win Elphir back. He had only wanted her for himself, eyeing her as another potential conquest to add to his formidable list. All of his gimmicks—the dress, the sword-fighting contest—had been done to alienate Elphir from her, meanwhile providing Amrothos with opportunities to see how far his control extended over her.

_How could I have been so blind?_ she asked herself, horrified.

It was the last rational thought she had. For a moment it seemed as if Amrothos would relent, as if he would lower his arms and let her pass. But then he blinked, coming to himself, and Gúthwyn saw with a surge of terror the anger with which he viewed her.

"You tease," he growled, spitting at her. Gúthwyn flinched, her mind screaming at her to move but her body unable to cooperate. "I know you want me, you slut. This entire month you have been seeking me out, asking me to help you seduce Elphir—you never cared about my brother, you only wanted another notch in your belt."

Overwhelmed by memories of another's hot breath upon her face, Gúthwyn was too petrified to do anything other than shake her head. Again, Amrothos tried to kiss her; stirring, she gave a muffled cry, evading his mouth a second time.

"Whore," Amrothos snarled, grabbing her chin and yanking it towards him. She found herself looking directly into his eyes, trembling under his scrutiny. His fingers were burning holes through her skin. This was utterly different from any of his previous advances—and she did not like the way he was making her feel at all.

Amrothos tightened his grip on her and whispered coldly, "Consider this my payment for helping you enter the tournament."

"No—"

She did not have time to even think_this cannot be happening_ before Amrothos pushed her into the wall, coming upon her when she had lost her balance and forcing his lips against hers in a searing kiss. His arms remained on either side of her, preventing escape; when she tried to duck underneath them, he grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her up again.

The last resistive impulse disappeared as something inside of her broke, the fragile confidence that she would never have to endure what Haldor had put her through again. She should have screamed. She should have screamed, kicked, punched, slapped, bit—anything to keep his hands off of her, to stop his cruel kiss. Instead she found herself powerless to even move as his tongue invaded her mouth, brutally making its acquaintance until she nearly fainted in terror. Memories of Haldor were holding her firmly in place, her strength too weak to fight them.

Taking her suddenly limp form as a compliant one, Amrothos allowed his right hand to lower its guard, testing her defiance. Gúthwyn did not struggle. The prince before her was fading, Haldor's face growing clearer. The Elf was pinning her beneath him, threatening the children, his might too great to be contested. She clenched her fists in silent agony, willing him to be done, willing him to go away.

Then she shrieked, the sound stifled by Amrothos's lips, for the prince's fingers had slipped under her tunic and were traveling up her stomach. Expecting her to fight back, Amrothos used his other hand to keep a tight hold on her arm and pressed his body against hers. Gúthwyn squirmed, seeing only Haldor and too afraid to offer any greater form of disobedience.

With every second that passed, Amrothos's touch migrating further up her torso, she thought she would die. Her breath had long since left her and she could not remember how to draw it; she was quivering in terror, needing desperately to throw up and yet locked in this humiliating, submissive position. Haldor was hissing and muttering in her ears, his golden hair falling over her face and causing her to cringe in revulsion.

_Please, stop,_ Gúthwyn begged silently, panic swirling within her. _I do not want this, please…_

Amrothos's cold hand now covered her breast, and she recoiled from it but could not move further away. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, yet whenever she attempted to inhale she was unable to retain any air. _Make it stop,_ she pleaded to the Valar, _make it stop make it stop make it stop_—

The sound of the stable doors opening penetrated the dark abyss of Amrothos's assault, but it was another few seconds—an eternity—before the prince realized they were not alone and released her. Gagging, Gúthwyn lurched away from him, only to look up and see both Lothíriel and Elphir standing in front of her, identical expressions of shock and outrage upon their faces.

Tears began streaming down Gúthwyn's cheeks when she met Elphir's eyes, unchecked and unstoppable. Any hopes she had ever harbored of repairing their relationship shattered, replaced by the terrible realization that he had never hated her more than he did now. Amrothos had destroyed the final remnants of what was once a great friendship, and it was not even half of what he had done.

"Elphir…" the prince in question began sheepishly, taking a step forward.

"How dare you defend your innocence?" Elphir roared, not at his brother but at Gúthwyn. She clutched her stomach, incapable of answering. "You _whore_, to think that I was going to apologize to you for _my_ conduct! Is this how you treat men who love you, by cavorting with their family members? Who will it be next, my father?"

Gúthwyn tried to open her mouth, but the urge to vomit was overwhelming and she was reduced to feebly shaking her head.

"You disgust me!" Elphir spat, looking sick, betrayed, and wounded all at once.

"Elphir," she at last managed to croak out, "I did not—"

"_Liar!_" he roared, his every word festering with hatred. "I never want to speak to you again, you slut! I curse the day that I first laid eyes upon you!"

Gúthwyn was weeping, more because of what Amrothos had done to her than what Elphir was now saying, but weeping all the same. Her eyes once, only once, darted to Lothíriel, who was watching her with an odd expression: largely loathing, yet also with pity that, no matter how reluctant, was grudgingly prominent.

"Get out," the queen at last ordered, her features hardening.

And Gúthwyn obeyed. Staggering towards the doors, barely able to see them through her tears, she watched as Elphir stepped away from her, repulsed as though she were carrying a hideous disease. He began shouting at Amrothos as she left the stables, but she could not make out a single word. The bright sunlight forced her to blink, clearing her vision yet only creating worse pain.

All around her people were emerging from their homes after their lunch, laughing and joking with each other; few of them noticed Gúthwyn standing in the shadows like a ghost, pale and trembling from her recent ordeal. In vain, she tried to wipe her eyes. It was several minutes before she had achieved a discernable difference in her features, but even then she could not stop shaking, nor could she breathe freely.

She felt confused, violated, and frightened, all rolled into a horrible combination that was making her dizzy with nausea. Amrothos's forceful kiss and the way he had touched her kept flashing through her mind, each relived memory worse than the last. Why could she no longer draw air? She took a step forward and nearly fell over, unable to find her balance and realizing that the world was spinning around her.

Slowly, deliberately, she walked towards the Golden Hall, shivering violently and wrapping her arms around herself from the cold and the queasiness permeating throughout her stomach. As the Eorlingas that had finished their lunches and were milling about in the street became aware of her presence, they went to greet her and stopped, their brows furrowing in puzzlement. Too busy trying not to throw up to answer their concerned queries, Gúthwyn focused on putting one foot in front of the other, hoping to reach Meduseld before she collapsed.

Halfway to her destination someone blocked her path, holding out their slender hands so that she could go no further. "Gúthwyn?" a familiar voice asked.

Éomund's daughter froze, slowly lifting her head to see Legolas looking at her curiously. "Are you feeling well?"

Gúthwyn stepped backwards, her pulse quickening at the reminder of Haldor and Amrothos. All of the color was draining out of her cheeks, leaving her as white as her sheets.

"Gúthwyn?" Legolas repeated warily, closing the distance between them.

"No," she whispered, searching for an escape. She needed to get away.

"Do you want Éomer?" he inquired gently.

She swayed at the mention of her brother, yearning for the safety of his presence but too ashamed of what she had let happen to her to contemplate it.

"Gúthwyn, what is wrong?" Legolas pressed her worriedly, reaching out to steady her.

His touch was like a hot iron branding her skin; she recoiled from it, jumping as though she had been scalded. "Stop it!" she shrieked, watching as his eyes widened in shock. "Leave me alone!"

She fled from him, running towards the sanctuary of her home, of her room with a lock on the door and a bed full of blankets that she could bury herself under. Nearly tripping over the stairs, she scrambled up them, eliciting alarmed glances from the guards.

"My lady?" one of them asked tentatively.

"Open, please," she gasped, gesturing wildly at the doors. Her arms were weak: after a few motions they fell limply to her sides, still twitching from recollections of Amrothos.

The men did as she had bid them, though not without bewildered looks. She entered the throne room, her queasiness renewed inside its dim confines and only increasing when she saw Éomer, Imrahil, and Erchirion dining together.

"Sister!" Éomer called, spotting her before she had a chance to slip into the hallway leading to her chambers. "Come, sit down!"

Her shoulders slumped. _No, I want to go and sleep and forget Amrothos ever existed and I feel sick and he touched me and you will ask questions and Imrahil is there stop waving me over stop stop stop…_

But he did not stop. Gúthwyn had not the heart to refuse him, and slowly she trudged over, trying to breathe and failing miserably.

"What would you like to eat?" Éomer inquired as she approached, knitting his brow slightly at her pallor yet still gesturing towards the platters on the table.

Thinking about food made her nauseous. Lowering herself onto the bench at her brother's side, Gúthwyn shook her head and stared at the bread basket, her eyes not taking in any of it.

"Gúthwyn?" Éomer put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, sliding over so that he could not reach her. Now that her concentration had been broken, she started shuddering, having nothing to grant her mind a reprieve from the memories. Again and again Amrothos shoved her into the wall, covering her mouth with his and sliding a cold hand along her skin.

There was a sharp incline of worry in Éomer's voice. "What is wrong?"

"I am fine," she choked out, each syllable wavering painfully. A corner of the table had been burned; she fixed her eyes upon it, trying to occupy herself by guessing how the marring had occurred, yet every attempt to think of something other than Amrothos led to a numb, blank buzzing in her head.

"Gúthwyn, you are frightening me," Éomer muttered in Rohirric. "What happened? Are you sick?"

Éomund's daughter swallowed, but she never got the chance to speak. At that moment, the doors opened, Amrothos strolling casually inside as though his assaulting her had been nothing out of the ordinary. Lothíriel was behind him, her face taut but otherwise perfectly composed. Elphir was nowhere in sight.

Gúthwyn's abdomen contracted as Amrothos made eye contact with her. Every instinct in her body was screaming to get away, yet she found that she was petrified and could only stare at him in terror. It was her stomach that at last spurred her to action: it overturned when he assumed his position at the table, causing her to bolt up out her seat with a strangled whimper. Knocking aside Éomer's staying hands, she ran from the great hall, her chest already heaving with sobs.

Bursting into her room, she crumbled to her knees in front of the chamber pot, retching and crying at the same time. She gagged on her own vomit; it was but some of the filth Amrothos had covered her in, the rest of which would never leave no matter how hard she tried to remove it.

_Why?_ she screamed silently at the Valar, tears streaming down her face. _What have I ever done to deserve this?_


	110. A Promise

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde**  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Ten:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Ten**

Gúthwyn was still vomiting when the door flung open, Éomer all but running over and kneeling down beside her.

"Sister, what happened?" he asked urgently.

Éomund's daughter spat out a mouthful of bile and burst into hysterical tears, clutching her stomach and curling over as though she would be sick again. She did not answer Éomer; instead she rocked back and forth, trying to shake away the dirt. She wanted a bath. She wanted to crawl under the blankets and stay there until the Dol Amroth delegation had left. But most of all she wanted to forget everything, so that her shame and dishonor might be buried along with the memories.

"Gúthwyn, speak to me," Éomer pleaded, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Tell me what is wrong, for I cannot help you otherwise!"

She cowered from him, unable to talk for fear and humiliation. Her body was convulsing with misery; it was cold and she could not stop shivering.

"Are you hurt?" Éomer pressed, now gently rubbing her back as if she were his child. While the gesture was meant to be soothing, Gúthwyn flinched. If a man ever touched her like that again, it would be too soon. The prospect of such intimacy disgusted her, ruining all of the progress she thought she had made in her recovery from Haldor's abuse.

"Gúthwyn, please," Éomer said. "What is wrong?"

"Leave me alone!" Gúthwyn managed to gasp, wishing him to return to his meal. "Leave me alone!"

"I will not," Éomer vowed, gripping her arm when she tried to pull away from him. "Tell me what is wrong," he repeated. "Are you hurt?"

She thought of Amrothos and threw up. Éomer swore under his breath and placed his palm on her forehead, attempting to gauge her temperature. Gúthwyn resisted, pushing his hand back.

"Answer me, then!" Éomer cried in frustration. "What has made you so desolate?"

Sobbing outright, too sickened to loathe her weakness, Gúthwyn opened and closed her mouth several times—yet whenever she started to speak she was overwhelmed by recollections of Amrothos pressing his body against hers, his lips crushing her own and his fingers sliding beneath her shirt.

"Are your grievances of your own making, or were they formed by the hands of another?"

Gúthwyn howled in misery and nodded her head in response to the latter inquiry; Éomer leaned closer, his brow slanted, and questioned, "One of our people?"

Gúthwyn shook her head, wiping her eyes fruitlessly.

"Imrahil's?"

She made a strangled noise of confirmation.

"His sons?" Éomer guessed, his words deadly quiet.

"A-A-Amrothos," she whispered at last, gagging when she uttered his name and bending over to throw up in the chamber pot. It was almost full.

"What did he do?" Éomer demanded, a hard note in his voice that frightened her. She did not want to tell him the extent to which she had let the prince dominate her, especially when she had not protested his violation. How could she confess to the crime she had committed? Amrothos had had his way with her and not once had she struggled; instead she had frozen and all but given him permission to do to her body as he desired. What would Éomer say when he learned of her disgrace?

She cried even harder, knowing that she was a whore, that she had submitted to Amrothos so readily. Why had she been rendered immobile, like a rabbit under the hawk's gaze?

"Sister, please," Éomer murmured when she refused to respond. "You must tell me how he has wronged you."

Afraid of her brother's reaction, Gúthwyn shook her head and curled into a ball, burying her face in her knees. "Go away," she whimpered, Haldor's mocking laughter echoing in her mind.

Ignoring her request for solitude, Éomer squeezed her shoulder and promised, "I will not think less of you for anything that you say, I swear it. You have my word."

He suspected. Gúthwyn's cheeks, already wet from shame, were covered anew in a layer of fresh tears.

"Please," Éomer said again, attempting to coax her out of her shell as one might lure a skittish horse from a stall.

Gúthwyn hesitated, now unsure of herself. If she did not confide in Éomer, he would assume the worst—but if she did, would he not be angry with her, for allowing herself to be placed in such a quandary?

"You may take as much of my time as you need," Éomer offered, not relinquishing his hold on her.

Gúthwyn began weeping again, yet words were now intermingled with her tears: halting, high-pitched, and quivering, but words nonetheless. "H-H-He cornered me in th-the stables and h-he k-k-kissed me and t-touched me…"

"He did _what?_" Éomer demanded furiously, his grip on her shoulder tightening considerably.

"I-I wanted to tell him no," she choked out, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak, "but I k-k-kept thinking of H-Haldor"—her voice broke as she whispered his name—"a-and I could not m-move… h-he said it was my payment…"

"Your payment?" Éomer echoed, both dumbfounded and outraged.

"He helped me enter the t-t-tournament," Gúthwyn admitted wretchedly. "He t-told me th-that I w-was in d-d-debt to him, but I did not th-think…"

More tears streamed down her cheeks.

"You said he touched you," Éomer spoke, his tone wavering and his chest heaving with the effort he was expending to remain calm. "Where?"

Gúthwyn cringed in embarrassment, and it was a full minute before she made a limp gesture in the direction of her breasts.

"Where is that bastard?" Éomer roared, his voice so loud that she nearly fell over in terror. He leapt to his feet, intending to run for the door, but with a surge of dread Éomund's daughter shouted:

"Éomer, wait!"

With seemingly great effort, Éomer stopped, though his hand was still reaching towards the door. Gúthwyn struggled to her feet, propelled only by fear of Éomer discovering for himself how much she had been to blame.

"I-It was my fault," she whispered unhappily. "He th-thought I wanted… h-he thought… and I n-never said no… he r-reminded me of H-H-Haldor and I was scared…"

"It was _not_ your fault," Éomer said immediately, vehemently, crossing the room to put both of his hands on her shoulders. His eyes holding hers so that she could not look away, unnerved though she was by the intensity of his stare, he added, "Amrothos should never have put you in that position, sister."

Gúthwyn shook her head. "I-I could have stopped him," she managed, "b-but I d-did not even t-try to get away…"

"You were taken advantage of," Éomer replied forcibly. "You were afraid, and he knew it. He manipulated you."

The confidence with which he addressed her was destroying her conscience. "He did not!" Gúthwyn screamed hysterically, slapping his hands away. Her voice gaining strength in volume, she yelled, "I n-never told him to s-stop, I never t-t-tried to defend myself, I just stood there and let him use me like the whore that I am!"

Éomer stiffened as she stood there, sobbing from her outburst, her entire body trembling with self-loathing and disgust. It was only when her knees buckled under the weight of such emotion that he was stirred to action: jumping forward, he caught her and pulled her into a tight embrace.

"It sickens me to hear you speak like this," he murmured in her ear, his hold on her tight as if he would wring the guilt from her. It certainly prevented her from struggling against him, which she attempted to do but in vain. "My baby sister is not a whore—why can you not see that?"

Gúthwyn knew she was soaking the front of Éomer's shirt with her tears, but try though she might she was unable to cease crying. After thinking herself safe from the indignity of assault, to have had her fragile assurance shattered was by far worse than dreading the consummation of her marriage with Elphir. She felt so unclean, so contaminated—she could vomit no more and yet she desperately needed to. Instead, she huddled against her brother, pretending that nothing existed outside of his strong, secure arms.

Éomer let her be for a long moment, and then asked hesitantly, "Did anything else happen?"

The lump in Gúthwyn's throat grew harder, until it was almost impossible to speak. Swallowing, she lifted her head and replied hoarsely, "Elphir and Lothíriel saw us."

"By the Valar," Éomer murmured, tensing. "Lothíriel was attempting to tell me something after you left and I did not think it important… Sister, I am sorry, but I shall have to discuss this with Imrahil."

"No!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, horrified. "Éomer, please, I have caused enough troubles for him!"

"Would you rather have him learn only Elphir's account?" Éomer questioned.

Gúthwyn did not answer. She wanted to maintain good relations with Imrahil—yet the prince would not know why she had been unable to resist his son's advances, why she had been idle while Amrothos was forcing unwanted attention upon her.

"I promise," Éomer said, "that between our efforts you will never have to see Amrothos again."

Far from assuring her, Éomer's words brought on a wave of apathy as she recalled what Cobryn had told her earlier that day. "Why bother?" she asked miserably. "What does it matter if I escape humiliation now, when I shall have to endure it from my husband?"

Her tears were renewed. While before she had thought herself capable of lying beneath a man in order to have a child, the reminder of what such degradation from Haldor had been like, even in this mild form, had utterly destroyed the resolution. Even for the sake of a little boy or a girl of her own she could not tolerate making love to her spouse—it was an act so disgusting, so vile, that to know she was expected to perform it in the future was horrifying.

As she wept, Éomer paused. "Why do you mention marriage now?" he probed when she did not elaborate.

"C-C-Cobryn said th-that Aldor was going t-to s-s-suggest it to you a-at your meeting today," Gúthwyn sobbed, the urge to retch rising, "a-and you s-said at the feast that y-you would not h-hinder him…"

"I—"

"Éomer, I would rather die than be touched again by a man!" she screamed, finally losing all self-control and clutching at her brother's tunic in an urgent supplication that she had not used in years. Her voice lost its stutter as her heart took over; each word she felt with every fiber of her being, so that they did not stumble but rather poured from her in the manner of a river that has broken through its dam. "What will it take to make you see that? I hate it! I hated Haldor and I hated Amrothos and I shall hate the husband you bind me to, for no matter how kind he is I will always have to please him in bed! I swear to you, brother, I shall kill myself before I am shackled to that slavery again! Do you not realize that I am ill so often because of Haldor, or see that I am sick now because of what Amrothos has done? They have both humiliated me, and yet you would force me to endure it all again and for the rest of my miserable existence? Why do you delude yourself into thinking that I could ever be happy with someone who is permitted to violate me at will? I do not want a spouse, Éomer, the very thought makes me sick! _What will it take to make you see that?_"

Éomer gaped at her, taken aback by her outburst. When he appeared to be rousing himself to argue, she did something she never imagined she would do again: she sank to her knees, the jolt causing tears to spatter across the floor, and pleaded, "I am begging you, Éomer, please do not force me to marry! I would drown myself sooner than submit to my husband, you sign my death warrant if you tell me to do so! You say that I will grow to love again, as if the memory of him whom I love most can be so easily tossed aside, yet I will never feel anything less than loathing towards he who professes to care for me and then rapes me—for rape it shall be—at his leisure!

"Brother, please, keep your advisors from discussing potential matches and let me be! I will do anything it is you ask of me, anything, if only I can be spared this fate! I am never unhappy for lack of a spouse, but only miserable at the prospect of one! Why are you so blind to my feelings? When have I ever given you any indication that I view marriage in a favorable light? Tell me, so that I might give you every assurance to the contrary! How long will you continue to ignore my wishes? When will it stop?"

"Gúthwyn, I…" Éomer trailed off, his expression unreadable, at a complete and total loss for words. He reached down to lift her up; she struggled, but his superior strength triumphed over her own, which was already sapped from Amrothos's assault. Though she resisted, he pulled her easily to her feet. "Sister…"

"Please," Gúthwyn whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.

For a long moment, Éomer was quiet. Gúthwyn stared at him in trepidation, dreading what he would say, fearing the worst. Her breath was hitching in her throat; she could not bear the thought that her pleas had been in vain, that even after her desperate entreaty he still believed himself in the right.

And then, to her eternal surprise and gratitude, Éomer said, "It stops now." Taking a deep breath, he said, "I no longer have the heart to pressure you to find a husband, not when I have seen what Amrothos's treatment is doing to you. I swear to you, I will speak to the advisors and end their discussions on the matter."

Gúthwyn began sobbing again, this time out of pure relief. "Th-thank you!" she choked out, barely able to speak for weeping. She embraced him tightly: while his oath did not erase what Amrothos had done to her, it had gone a long way in reassuring her that she would never have to endure it again. She still felt disgusting, yet in time that might heal—and then she would be free from worry.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Gúthwyn attempted to stifle her tears, but it was a futile exercise and at length she simply turned her face away, praying that whoever it was desired to speak only to her brother.

"Who is it?" Éomer called.

"Lothíriel," came the response, and Gúthwyn stiffened. She did not want the queen to see her like this; when Éomer glanced at her, silently asking permission, she shook her head frantically. "Is everything all right?"

"I shall be out soon," Éomer replied, his hold on Gúthwyn loosening slightly.

Éomund's daughter was secretly glad; as supportive as Éomer had been of her, she wished to be alone so that she might cast herself into a long sleep, one that she would not wake from until the Dol Amroth delegation was at least fifty leagues from Edoras.

Her thoughts were temporarily upset when Éomer asked in a harsh tone of voice, "Lothíriel, where is Amrothos?"

There was a pause. "My father is speaking to him," the queen replied at length. "They left Meduseld, however, and I was not informed of their destination."

Éomer sighed. "Thank you," he answered, and after a moment Gúthwyn heard the sounds of Lothíriel's footsteps fading into the distance.

"What will you say to him?" she questioned nervously.

"Few things appropriate for your ears," Éomer said, "but I am forbidding him to talk to you for the rest of the visit—though there is only a day left—and he is also to stay away from you during the feast."

"I am not going," Gúthwyn informed him, shaking her head. "I cannot." The thought of being surrounded by the nobles of Dol Amroth was abhorrent, especially when they would be scrutinizing her every movement. This was bad enough on the days she had not been embroiled in a scandal; if word had already reached the likes of Lady Míriel that Elphir had caught her and Amrothos in the stables, the dinner would be nothing short of hell.

"You are," Éomer told her. "I am not going to let you stay in this room with only recollections of what Amrothos did, nor should he have the satisfaction of thinking that he has triumphed over you."

"But—"

"You do not have to see him," Éomer was quick to add. "You may sit with me, in which case he shall not be permitted to dine at my table; the children and Cobryn; or you may sit with your friends from the training grounds, who will be more than happy to watch out for you. If the Dol Amroth nobility make a fuss over your choice, let them gossip."

Gúthwyn's heart felt somewhat lighter at the prospect of being surrounded by her friends and family, but she knew that she could not expect them to take care of her the entire night and she was afraid that Amrothos's persistency would enable him to find a way to her reach her regardless of their protection. "Éomer…" she started after a pause.

"Do not worry, baby sister," he said. "Rest now, and do not hesitate to send for me if you desire company. I shall have one of the maids clean the mess up"—he indicated her chamber pot—"but is there anything else you would like before I seek out Amrothos?"

Gúthwyn shook her head. Perhaps she would be so soundly asleep by the time the feast began that her brother would deem it best to not disturb her.

"What is it?" Éomer asked, exasperated, when the sounds of someone knocking on the door met their ears again.

"The advisors are waiting for you," Lothíriel's voice filtered inside. Was it Gúthwyn's imagination, or were the queen's words laced with hurt? "Shall I tell them that you have canceled the meeting?"

Éomer swore under his breath. "I forgot it was this early!"

"Go," Gúthwyn said quickly. _And tell them to stop debating about whom I will marry,_ she added to herself.

"Are you sure?" Éomer inquired, looking at her worriedly. "Will you be fine by yourself?"

Gúthwyn nodded.

"I am coming!" Éomer informed Lothíriel. He hugged Gúthwyn, saying, "Be strong, sister," and then stepped away, walking towards the door. Gúthwyn watched him depart, now cold without his arms holding her securely against everything outside of her room. Once he had gone out of sight, leaving her utterly alone, she retreated to her bed and slid under the covers.

A great weariness came over her as she did so, and the tremors of fear rippling through her whenever she thought of Amrothos were insufficient to stop her from closing her eyes. Drawing the blankets closely around her, hiding all but the top of her head beneath the sheets, she shivered for a few minutes and then felt herself drifting away, leaving behind her wretched existence.

Haldor was waiting for her, welcoming her back into his world with a slow, sadistic smile.

* * *

When Éomer and Lothíriel sat down at the table his councilors were currently using as a meeting place, the sight of the men withdrawing countless charts and diagrams made the king's head ache. He could not deal with the ruling of his kingdom now, not when his own home was beset with problems beyond his control. 

"If it can wait until tomorrow, I do not want to hear it," he said shortly, eliciting surprised glances from the advisors. Normally, he at least tried to appear interested in all they brought to his attention, even if it was something as dull as sheep wool—a matter which always seemed to work itself into the weekly reports he received.

Across the table from him, Cobryn tucked away his scrolls of parchment, shooting him a quizzical look, but as the shrewd young man would undoubtedly learn the source of his king's anger before the hour was out Éomer felt no need to fill him in now. Instead, he attempted to concentrate on the significantly reduced presentations the advisors were giving him, yet found the task almost impossible.

Again and again, his mind returned to Gúthwyn, and each time it did his fists clenched in fury. The only occasion on which he had ever seen his baby sister so distraught was when she had relayed to him the tale of her abuse at Haldor's hands. Her screams still echoed in his ears, making it difficult for him to think of aught else. He wanted to murder Amrothos for all the bastard had done to her; he wanted to take the prince and rip him apart with his bare hands, until the conniving whoreson was begging for mercy—which Éomer would never give him.

"My lord?"

Aldor's voice penetrated his thoughts, bringing him back to the table with a start. "My apologies," he responded wearily. "What were you saying?"

There was silence. At the sight of Aldor's indignant expression, Éomer realized he must have missed the entire report. "Never mind," he decided, waving his hand in resignation. "I am sorry, Aldor, my troubles lie elsewhere today. We will have this meeting tomorrow, when Imrahil and his people have left."

As Lothíriel squeezed her husband's hand sympathetically, Aldor made to protest, but then stopped under Éomer's warning look.

"One more thing," the king of Rohan announced suddenly, remembering his promise to Gúthwyn. "All of you, listen, for I will not repeat myself. The matter of my sister's marriage prospects is no longer to be discussed during council sessions. This is nonnegotiable. I do not want anyone—especially you, Aldor—to speak to Gúthwyn about finding a husband. If she chooses to take a spouse, it will be on her own terms, not ours. Is that understood?"

There was a grudging murmur of assent amongst most of the advisors, but Cobryn's voice carried loud and clear and the level of newfound respect with which he was viewing Éomer, although accompanied by a fair share of suspicion, more than made up for any kind of regret the king felt about giving up so easily on his sister's future.

Aldor, however, was not ready to let go without a fight. "My lord," he began, exchanging a glance with Aldhelm, "a strong match for Gúthwyn would aid us—"

"I am _not_ going to auction my sister off to the bidder with the best political connections," Éomer barked, his mind filling with awful images of Gúthwyn sinking to her knees and begging him like a slave to spare her from such a fate, "and I am _not_ going to force her to marry someone she does not care for!" He stopped just short of adding_like I did with Elphir_. "Do not broach this topic with me again, Aldor, it is closed to discussion!"  
"Éomer, be reasonable—"

"_ALDOR!_" Éomer roared, not realizing that his voice had been so loud until the clattering of dishes upon the floor brought him to his senses. He had scared half of the servants out of their wits, and Lothíriel also appeared to be paler than usual. "This is my sister you are talking about," he continued more quietly, breathing heavily, "_my baby sister_. What I have just decreed is not open to debate. I will not argue with you about it."

Without waiting for an answer he stalked away from the table, intent on finding Amrothos so that he could take the rest of his anger out on the prince. After a moment, he heard the sound of someone limping behind him, someone who was clearly walking faster than they were accustomed to.

"Yes, Cobryn?" Éomer ground out, trying to be civil as he came to a halt and waited for the younger man to catch up.

"Why did you change your mind?" Cobryn asked, his hand bracing his leg and his face contorted in a grimace. "What happened? Is something wrong?"

For a moment, Éomer considered brushing him off, but as he had recognized earlier Cobryn had the uncanny talent of uncovering information—and he would rather spare Gúthwyn the pain of her friend's interrogation. "Amrothos," he finally growled, his hands instinctively clenching into fists. Checking to make sure that there were no servants in the vicinity, he continued, "That filthy piece of scum trapped her in the stables and—and—" Struggling to find the right words, he suddenly appreciated just how difficult it had been for Gúthwyn to confide in him. For it was not just overcoming one's distress; it was also getting past the mortifying barrier of expression, the inability to find words decent enough to describe Amrothos's crime.

Cobryn's eyes widened as Éomer cast around for something to say. "He did not—he did not rape—" he croaked out.

"No!" Éomer exclaimed quickly, his stomach turning cold at the thought. "Nay, it was not that. He… he kissed her against her will and"—his cheeks were turning red with a combination of both fury and embarrassment—"he touched her."

"If you were leaving the hall to kill him," Cobryn growled, utmost disgust and hatred flashing in his eyes, "I will gladly join you on that errand, even if all I can do is strike him with my cane."

"As much as I would like to accept your offer," Éomer muttered, "he is Lothíriel's brother and it is for her sake that I refrain from doing so. Rather, I was planning to speak with Imrahil, in hopes that he can come up with a suitable punishment. He knows what will make Amrothos miserable far better than I do."

Cobryn was silent for a moment. "I cannot believe I did not pay closer attention to him," he said at last, frowning. "I knew that he was following her. I knew she was afraid of him. And yet I did nothing."

"It would not have made a difference," Éomer replied. "I had my men keeping an eye on him and that did not protect my baby sister. I even had Lothíriel warn him... he did this fully aware that I was watching him, that whoreson."

"Lothíriel warned him?" Cobryn inquired, knitting his brow. "Against pursuing Gúthwyn?"

Éomer nodded. "She told me that he had agreed to relent, but obviously he lied to her." He could not resist shifting impatiently towards the door; with each second that passed, Imrahil was more likely to have accepted Elphir's version of the story, especially because Éomer had not corrected him. Every minute lost was a minute Gúthwyn's innocence remained disputed.

Sensing this, Cobryn gave way with a small gesture. "Shall I talk to Gúthwyn, or would she rather be alone?"

Éomer hesitated. He sensed that Gúthwyn needed some time to herself, but on the other hand he did not think it best for her to be in solitude for very long. Who knew what sort of terrors her mind would conjure when left to its own devices? She was far from a raving lunatic, yet there were occasions on which he doubted her stability. Her constant anxiety, her frailty—both qualities that worried him, especially in conjunction with incidents like these.

"Please, check on her," he at last decided. "She may want your company, which would put me more at ease than letting her be."

Cobryn nodded, and without another word began heading towards Gúthwyn's chambers. Éomer watched him go, the small brotherly instinct not to permit a man to enter his sister's quarters unattended rising inside him for a brief moment, but then he squared his shoulders and walked determinedly in the opposite direction. Once he found Prince Imrahil, it would be a matter of a few minutes before Gúthwyn's name was cleared.

Then, he could concentrate on hunting Amrothos down and making the man rue the day he had ever wronged Éomer's baby sister.


	111. Questions

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Eleven:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Eleven**

Gúthwyn spent the rest of the day in a fitful rest, tormented by visits from Haldor and often waking in a cold sweat. Whenever this happened she had no choice but to immerse herself in the nightmares again, because to resist sleep was to think of both the Elf and Amrothos—and the latter at least had not yet succeeded in entering her dreams. It was a miserable state of existence. More than once she dissolved into tears, praying that the Valar would just obliterate her memories, yet they had shut their ears against her pleas.

In this way a great part of the afternoon passed, until at length she was drawn back to the present by a quiet, yet firm voice. "Gúthwyn," its owner spoke, sounding very far away. "It is time to get ready for the feast."

Gúthwyn's response was to slide further under the covers. She did not want to be near Amrothos. She needed a bath, if only she could stop shivering long enough to undress. All such thoughts of soaking in a warm tub, however, took flight when a cool burst of air met her body. She tried to retrieve the blankets that had been wrested from her, but the intruder was persistent and her efforts were in vain.

"Gúthwyn, wake up," the voice said.

Groaning, Éomund's daughter attempted to curl into a ball and preserve her body heat, wishing that the person would just leave her alone.

"I do not want to use my cane," the aforementioned person threatened.

Cobryn.

Gúthwyn opened her eyes, the task difficult because they were puffy and swollen. After a moment they fell upon her friend, who was watching her concernedly. "Éomer told me about Amrothos," he said, somehow managing to make the statement tactful. "Are you all right?"

Gúthwyn nodded, unable to hold his gaze for long. "Thank you for your concern," she responded to the floor, an embarrassed flush creeping up her cheeks as she propped herself up into a sitting position. How many others knew what had transpired between her and Amrothos in the stables?

"He has not informed anyone else, as far as I am aware," Cobryn announced, guessing at the source of her mortification. "He mentioned a meeting with Imrahil, but I would be shocked if the prince has not yet heard the story from one of his children."

Again, Gúthwyn nodded. "Will you let Éomer know that I will be staying here for the evening?" she inquired, hoping that her brother had neglected to mention to Cobryn that he wanted her to attend the feast.

Unfortunately, Cobryn did not fall for her ruse. "He has specifically requested your company. He worries for you—I went to see you early in the afternoon, yet you were fast asleep and you did not wake until my return, several hours later."

"I am fine," Gúthwyn lied automatically, not even bothering to sound convincing. "I am merely tired. Éomer has enough guests to entertain without paying attention to me."

"Both he and I agree that it would be best for you to come," Cobryn said authoritatively, his tone brooking no room for argument.

Gúthwyn tried anyway. "I do not wish to go," she responded, her hand stretching out longingly for her comforter. Cobryn pulled it away from her, his resolution unwavering. "Amrothos will be there, as will all of the nobles. How could surrounding myself with them possibly be in my interests?"

"Not them," Cobryn corrected, "but rather your friends and family. Éomer has already warned Amrothos not to so much as look at you for the rest of the visit, and the likes of Lady Míriel and Lord Tulkadan actively avoid you."

"Does 'family' include Lothíriel?" Gúthwyn questioned morosely, inwardly groaning at the thought of appearing before the queen in her condition.

"Regrettably, it does, yet you are more than welcome to sit with the guards, myself, or the children."

Gúthwyn stirred at the mention of Hammel and Haiweth. "Where are they?" she asked weakly.

"Haiweth is playing with her friends," Cobryn replied, "and Hammel is reading in his room."

"Thank you," she said, reclining back against her pillows.

"You are going to the feast," Cobryn reminded her.

_No, I am not,_ Gúthwyn thought of retorting, but she found that she lacked the energy to say anything more than was absolutely necessary. Instead, she gave a small shrug.

"Do you wish to change?" he asked, gesturing towards her bedraggled clothes.

"Would it please Éomer?" Gúthwyn returned dully. She wanted to get rid of the garments that had been soiled by Amrothos's touch, yet she barely had the will to move, let alone do something that required additional exertion.

Cobryn looked at her for a moment, and then abruptly crossed the room to her wardrobe. "Here," he said, opening it and withdrawing her favorite green dress. He draped it over her desk chair, so that she would have to get out of her bed in order to retrieve it. "Wear this."

"Do I have time to wash?" she inquired. Halfway through, she realized that her lips were moving soundlessly.

"Come again?" Cobryn queried.

Gúthwyn gave up. It felt as if she were floating down a river of lead; her limbs were heavy, her spirit lacking the strength to fight.

"I will wait outside," Cobryn decided when she did not speak. "Would you like me to send for one of the maids?"

"No," she murmured wearily. "Thank you."

Cobryn nodded and left, closing the door behind him with a soft _click_ that barely registered in Gúthwyn's mind. For nearly a full minute she lay still, staring at the gown and trying to muster the desire to garb herself in it. All the while her eyes kept darting to the welcoming mass of blankets at the end of her bed, a warm nest in which she would have liked nothing more than to ensconce herself for the rest of the week.

_Move!_ her mind screamed at her. _Stop acting like a coward and go to the feast!_

_No, no, no,_ her heart argued. _I would much rather stay here. Éomer does not require my presence to enjoy his dinner. Hammel and Haiweth do not need my supervision. The men will be too busy participating in drinking games to notice my absence. Why bother attending?_

_Do you propose, then_, the defiant part of her demanded, _to hide yourself from all of Edoras until Amrothos has left? Could you possibly be more craven? You were never this weak after Haldor called you to his tent, you carried on with practice the morning after and you did not even contemplate giving in to tears like you have been doing all day! Amrothos has done nothing to you in comparison to Haldor, nothing! And yet you act as though it were a thousand times worse!_

That, more than anything, shamed Éomund's daughter into finally climbing out of her bed and shedding her tunic, casting it onto the floor and then discarding her leggings. As she worked she turned away from the mirror, for the sight of bare flesh now repulsed her far greater than ever before. Willing herself to keep moving, she slipped on the green gown and only then examined her reflection.

She looked like a mess. Her hair was tousled from sleep, and probably had more tangles than she could master in less than an hour; there were dark circles under her eyes, changing her expression to that of a frightened animal; her shoulders were hunched, her posture miserable; her hands were twitching. If she went to the feast in such a state, there would certainly be questions—assuming that rumor had not already arrived in the streets about her disgrace.

"Gúthwyn?" Cobryn called from beyond the door. He had been waiting, Éomund's daughter realized guiltily, for at least ten minutes. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, I am fine," she answered swiftly. "You can come in."

Almost as soon as she spoke he stepped inside the room, but she was not yet ready. Retrieving her brush, she attempted to make herself presentable in the loosest sense of the word. A few strokes later, however, she gave up, deciding that as long as she had gotten rid of the topmost layer of knots there was no point in wasting more of her energy. Instead, she attempted another feeble grooming exercise, this time in the form of cleaning her face with water from the washing basin. It did nothing to lighten the bags under her eyes, but at least it gave the rest of her complexion a fresher appearance.

That said—"I look horrible," she mused dully, gazing at the finished result in the mirror.

Never one for sycophancy, Cobryn agreed. "No doubt there will be speculation filtering amongst the nobility, but at least they are not discussing something worse."

"That is," Gúthwyn said gloomily, "unless Elphir, Amrothos, or Lothíriel's tongues have wagged."

"Elphir's will not," Cobryn predicted, "and even Amrothos is not fool enough to boast about his latest victim. Meanwhile, Lothíriel has relations between Rohan and Dol Amroth to protect, and this mishap is too risky to take advantage of in any way that she might consider. Not even she would dare."

His points about the princes made sense, yet Gúthwyn remained unsure of her brother's wife. After all, once the nobility left, Lothíriel had free reign to tell the Rohirric women about what had happened. Éomund's daughter did not care so much about what Lady Míriel and her friends thought, even if their opinions of her were irritating, but she did not want her own people to believe that she had been receptive to any of Amrothos's advances.

"Shall we go?" Cobryn asked when she did not answer.

"If we must." Gúthwyn sighed, having no desire to move any closer to the throne room than she was now. A small tremor of fear even ran through her, for Amrothos would be there as well and it would be difficult at best to avoid him. A fleeting, childish urge came over her to wait until Cobryn had left her chambers and then lock herself in, but she had acted in a pathetic enough manner today.

Thus it was that she followed her friend out of the door and down the corridor, wiping her sweating palms on her dress and longing to be anywhere else. Was it so much to ask for her to be allowed to sleep through the evening? Every fiber of her being was revolting against surrounding herself with people—even her ears were trying to suppress the din of the great hall that could normally be heard from outside of Meduseld. Despite the fact she was coming closer to it with each passing second, she could not detect any of the usual noises that accompanied feasting and revelry.

"Wait," she said abruptly, stopping just short of her destination. Cobryn halted an instant later, glancing at her. "There is no one here," Gúthwyn began, confused. A brief glimpse into the throne room had just revealed that there were no occupants—small wonder that she had not been able to discern any roar, dull or otherwise!

"Éomer thinks it is better for us to emerge from your chambers when the nobility are not around to mark the event," Cobryn replied, "and I agree with him."

Flushing, Gúthwyn spent a few seconds being grateful that someone had considered the viewpoint of the Dol Amroth court in that regard, for she certainly had not. Resuming her course, she stepped into the throne room, only to freeze again when she saw that it was not, in fact, devoid of people. Sitting solemnly at the center table were Éomer and Imrahil, their grave expressions fixed on her and foreboding imminent interrogation.

"What—" Gúthwyn started, paling at the sight of the prince.

"Sit down," Cobryn instructed her out of the corner of his mouth.

"No!" she hissed, panicking and backing away. She could only imagine what Imrahil now thought of her; he had treated her so kindly, always willing to see beyond the rumors, that to have betrayed his trust shamed her to the point where she could not even look him in the eye.

Before she could make significant progress in the opposite direction, however, Cobryn grabbed her by the arm and stopped her from moving. "You will be fine," he muttered. "Just do it."

There was no escape. Nervously Gúthwyn approached the table, wringing her pale and clammy hands when she realized that Cobryn was not following her. Instead, he sat down at a table not too far from the other men, quietly watching the procedure. Éomund's daughter was left to walk towards Éomer and Prince Imrahil on her own.

"Please, take a seat," the former said kindly when she stopped several feet away.

She hesitated before complying, lowering her trembling form and flinching under Imrahil's gaze.

_You are acting like a child who has just been caught stealing!_ she chastised herself. _You have done nothing wrong!_

_You let Amrothos use you_, another voice taunted. _You could have stopped him._

_Amrothos would have had his way with or without your consent_, she told herself sternly. _You never struggled against Haldor, and yet you hated it all the same._

"Imrahil wishes to ask you a few questions," Éomer said then, interrupting her thoughts. Gúthwyn jumped and looked at him, petrified. "Answer them as well as you are able."

What else could she do? Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded, twisting her fingers and praying for someone to rescue her from this situation.

Naturally, the Valar were not so kind as that. "Gúthwyn," Imrahil began, his no-nonsense tone compelling her to meet his eyes.She did so, quivering: the intensity radiating from his gaze was more than she could endure for a great period of time. "Your brother has made serious allegations on your behalf against my son Amrothos. He says that you were subjected unwillingly to his attentions, an offense that I do not punish lightly. Amrothos, however, claims that you have been pursuing him this entire month. Is this true?"

Outraged, Gúthwyn emphatically shook her head. "Never," she spat, fury briefly overcoming her fright.

"Is there anything you have done," Imrahil pressed, "that might have led him to the conclusion that this was so?"

"Never," Gúthwyn repeated, appalled at the very idea.

"You did not say something to him that could be construed as flirtatious, nor make any gestures which might be deemed suggestive?"

_I threatened him with murder,_ Gúthwyn longed to point out, but did not dare. "No," was what she said aloud.

"If that is so, then please explain to me what happened today."

Gúthwyn stiffened. "E-Explain, my lord?" she choked out. "Did Éomer not—"

"I wish to hear your account," Imrahil responded, his features serious yet otherwise inscrutable.

The prospect of such an obstacle before her was almost enough to make her start weeping again. She was not ready to tell the story another time. She wanted to go to sleep and forget that any of it had ever occurred. But Imrahil was watching her expectantly, and fear of losing his esteem—if indeed there was still some left to lose—was what forced her to continue, though she did not dare look at either of the men before her, nor allow herself to remember that Cobryn was able to hear everything.

Slowly, haltingly, she outlined the events that had transpired in the stables, stumbling whenever she came to the descriptions of where Amrothos's fingers had traveled and her cheeks a bright crimson red by the time she had finished. It took every ounce of strength she did not have to keep herself from sobbing once more. The lump in her throat was rock solid, making it difficult to speak.

After she had said all that she could, Imrahil asked her the one question that she could not answer truthfully: "Why did you not call for help?"

Gúthwyn glanced at Éomer, trembling, but he did not give her any sort of signal, nor did he intervene. Feeling nauseous, she looked back at Imrahil, wondering if there was anything to say that would not incriminate her.

"I was afraid," she at last whispered, staring determinedly into her lap. She was too ashamed to meet the prince's eyes, despite the fact that such reticence made her story less credible. "I could not breathe o-or move. I-I felt sick. Yet even if I had, n-no one would have heard me… it w-was noontime, a-and everyone was in their homes…"

"Including the stableboys?"

Gúthwyn nodded. If Amrothos had given any thought to claiming his payment, he had certainly planned well for the occasion: no one had been around to hinder him, nor had anyone been close enough to the stables for a shriek to be worth it. If it were not for the fact that Amrothos had openly pursued her when they were surrounded by hundreds of people, she would have suspected him of arranging the situation on purpose.

"Thank you," Imrahil said, drawing her out of her musings. There was an odd expression on his face—was it disappointment?—as he added, "I am sorry for asking you to relive the incident, but it is the only way that I can determine the truth of the matter."

Gúthwyn did not care. Feelings of anger were swirling inside of her, intermixing with sorrow and mortification. She hated the Valar for allowing this to happen, loathed Amrothos for denying it, and was even irritated with Imrahil for forcing her to endure it all again. The only emotion somewhat capable of assuaging her rage was gratitude towards Éomer, that she would never have to take a husband who would do to her exactly as Amrothos had.

"Well," Imrahil began, frowning, "as much as my heart wishes it were otherwise, it seems that Amrothos is entirely at fault for what has happened today. A thousand apologies, Lady Gúthwyn, for his behavior—rest assured that it will not go unpunished."

"Thank you," Éomund's daughter murmured, her eyes widening in relief as she understood that the ruler was not condemning her. As long as Imrahil believed her, it did not matter what the rest of his subjects thought. The prince had more righteousness in his smallest finger than the nobility did collectively, and Gúthwyn would rather have his trust than that of any of Lady Míriel's friends.

Éomer also thanked Imrahil. "I am glad we have come to an agreement," he said, smiling encouragingly at Gúthwyn as he got to his feet. "I shall recall the servants so that they can finish setting up—my friend, would you be so kind as to wait for me? There are some other things I wish to discuss with you."

"Of course," Imrahil replied.

"Wait," Gúthwyn interjected, confused. Now that she thought about it, surely some people should have already arrived? Would the servants not have been bustling around, doing various last-minute preparations? "When does the feast start?" she asked suspiciously, turning to briefly look at Cobryn. He did not so much as blink under her piercing stare.

"In just over an hour," Éomer replied gruffly. Was it her imagination, or did he flush a little when she glanced back at him?

"An hour?" she echoed, realizing that she had been duped into this interrogation. Éomer, knowing fully well that she would never consent to an interview with Imrahil, had sent Cobryn—the more persuasive of the two—to coax her out of bed on the pretext of attending the feast.

She went to open her mouth, but then closed it. Protesting her brother's underhanded actions would get her nowhere, especially since she had already spoken to Imrahil. Seeing this acceptance, Éomer inclined his head at her and then left, heading towards his own chambers. Gúthwyn gazed unhappily after him, wishing she had been able to detect the trick earlier when such awareness would have actually helped her.

Disheartened, she was about to leave the table when Imrahil leaned over and inquired, "Might I beg a little more of your time?"

"You may," Gúthwyn said slowly, unsure of what else he could possibly want and curious in spite of herself.

"Thank you," Imrahil replied. A second later, his eyes darted over her shoulder and he held out his hand in a halting gesture. Gúthwyn twisted and saw Cobryn pausing mid-step, having been about to approach them. She smiled at him, letting him know that she was fine, and he reluctantly lowered himself back onto the bench he had previously occupied.

Assured that they were now free from interruption, Imrahil began speaking, though his voice was quiet and he appeared intent on not being heard by Cobryn. "Forgive me if this seems a strange question," he said, "but what is the nature of your relationship with my daughter?"

Taken aback, Gúthwyn stuttered, "L-Lothíriel?"

When he nodded, she had no choice other than to accept that there had not been an error of communication, and that she would have to come up with an answer swiftly or risk sounding dishonest. "I-I am not sure," she said, and then blushed, for that was hardly glowing praise of his offspring. Hoping to remedy her mistake, she quickly added, "My brother is very much in love with her."

Imrahil chuckled. "That I am well aware of," he replied, "yet I am wondering about how the two of you get along."

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Gúthwyn answered, "Our schedules do not overlap often; I rarely have the opportunity to speak with her outside of meals. Our conversations, indeed, are mostly limited to stories about Elfwine."

She felt a pang in her heart for her adorable nephew, but steeled herself to concentrate on her discussion with Imrahil.

"Are you speaking truthfully?" the prince queried, his gaze locking on hers.

Gúthwyn was fairly certain that her face was on fire, for she had suddenly grown unbearably hot and uncomfortable. "Yes, I am," she lied—anything to get out of this predicament.

Imrahil surveyed her for another minute; again, there was a dissatisfied air about him, as though she had disappointed him somehow. Not knowing what to say or do, Gúthwyn settled for shifting awkwardly on the bench, wondering when Éomer would return so that she could retire without leaving his guest alone.

Luckily, her brother did not make her wait for long. Only a minute after Imrahil had thanked her for the final time, servants began swarming into the throne room, hurriedly pushing tables together and setting them with plates and various utensils. Éomer appeared shortly thereafter, holding in his arms a noticeably disgruntled Elfwine. Gúthwyn's stomach contracted when she saw her nephew—of all the times to remind her that she was forbidden to see him, why did her brother have to pick now?

To make matters worse, Elfwine happened to glance over and see her, at which point he began squirming frantically in his father's arms. "Gúthy!" he shrieked, his fists grasping at the air in her direction.

"Perhaps the king should have chosen a punishment for Lady Gúthwyn that was less harsh on our ears," Éomund's daughter distinctly heard a passing servant mutter to his companion.

Mortified, Gúthwyn all but jumped to her feet, intending to leave the room as quickly as possible so that Elfwine would grow accustomed to her absence. Though it wrenched her heart to see her nephew wailing in misery, and she desired nothing more than to hold him and assure him that everything was fine, she knew that the longer she delayed her departure the worse it would be for him.

She was crossing the length of the great hall when the sound of pursuing footsteps met her ears. "Gúthwyn, wait!" Éomer exclaimed, having to shout to be heard over his son's screeching.

"Brother, you should not torment…" Gúthwyn began, whirling around in exasperation.

She trailed off, however, when she saw the scene before her. Only a few yards away, Éomer lowered Elfwine to the ground, giving him a nudge in Gúthwyn's direction. Elfwine shrieked with glee and toddled towards his aunt, causing her to go light-headed with delight. Torn between this ecstasy and fear that Éomer had forgotten when her chastisement was actually supposed to end, Gúthwyn could only watch as Elfwine made a beeline for her, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

"Gúthy!" he yelled, bouncing up and down in front of her. "Gúthy back!"

Broken out of her spell, Gúthwyn sank to her knees and enveloped her nephew in as tight a hug as she dared, something that he did not protest in the slightest. "Gúthy back!" he chanted over and over again, yanking at her hair in almost maniacal excitement.

Gúthwyn felt tears leaking out of her eyes, not from pain but from a happiness so pure that it she was half-afraid her heart would burst under the strain. "Oh, little one," she whispered, planting several kisses on his forehead just to affirm that it really was him. "I have missed you so much!"

"Effine need Gúthy," the young prince declared, entwining his fingers in her locks so that she could not escape. "Gúthy stay."

"I promise," Gúthwyn vowed, barely able to talk around the lump in her throat. "I promise I will stay, little one."

A shadow fell over her as she said this. Before she had time to look up, Éomer crouched down beside her, reaching out to gently pat her on the shoulder. "I know you are not supposed to see him until tomorrow," he murmured, "but I thought you could use his company."

"Thank you, brother," Gúthwyn choked out, smiling amidst her tears. Even though Éomer had the tendency to make poor judgments concerning her, being oblivious to what she truly needed, tonight he had gotten at least one thing right. She would have embraced him if her arms had not been occupied by her nephew. Instead, she contented herself with a promise to do it later, after Elfwine had gone to bed.

The child in question chose at that moment to lift his head from where it had been buried in her hair, reminding Éomer crossly, "Gúthy mine."

"Gúthwyn, I am so sorry," Éomer apologized, his eyes full of regret when they met hers. "Would that I had never forbidden you from seeing your own nephew… it was only after that I realized how much I had acted as if I were…"

He trailed off, but Gúthwyn knew exactly whom he meant. "You are nothing like him," she said firmly, nevertheless holding Elfwine tighter. "Furthermore, you were in the right. I had no reason to enter the tournament beyond wishing to prove Lord Tulkadan wrong. I—"

"Nay, sister, do not blame yourself. I have overlooked your interests"—he lowered his voice, glancing at Imrahil—"in favor of our guests, who have done nothing to merit such preference. It seems that all I have done this month is punish you in some form or another; I have treated you horribly, and yet you have only once defied me. I would beg for your forgiveness, if you will give it."

"It is given," Gúthwyn answered instantly. With Elfwine safely in her arms and the Dol Amroth delegation well on their way to departure, it was far easier to pardon her brother's mistakes than it had been for the entire week. Now she merely wanted everything to be over, to put this miserable month behind her—and the first step in that direction was making amends with Éomer.

"I am going to speak with Imrahil," he announced, squeezing her shoulder one last time before shifting so that he was in a better position to get to his feet. "Elfwine is all yours for the evening."

"Mine," the baby confirmed, talking around the strands of Gúthwyn's hair he had in his mouth.

"Thank you so much," Gúthwyn said to Éomer, feeling as though she would burst into tears of joy.

Éomer nodded at her, pleased with her reaction, and left to join Imrahil. The prince, too, inclined his head towards her, a gesture that she reciprocated with a nervous grin.

"It is just you and I, little one," Gúthwyn said to Elfwine when the two rulers had relocated to a table in the corner. "Just you and I."

Elfwine giggled, the sound music to her ears. "You I," he mimicked her. "Effine Gúthy."

Unnoticed, Cobryn slipped out of the throne room, a rare smile upon his face.


	112. Cobryn's Defeat

**A/N: **Wow, it feels like so long since I've updated! Real life kicked me in the ass (pardon my French) about three weeks ago, starting with a research paper, about two hundred pages of an AP textbook I had to take notes on, various sports competitions that managed to consume horrifying amounts of weekend writing time, my job, and after-school activities. Needless to say, I was not a happy camper. But, this chapter does clock in at thirteen pages on Microsoft Word, so hopefully that'll make up for the delay!

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:**  
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Twelve:**  
The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Twelve**

Not once, in the entire hour that was left to them before the feast, did Elfwine permit Gúthwyn to lower him to the ground. He insisted on remaining in her arms—not that she objected—while chattering to her in an excited babble of Rohirric, Westron, and his own unidentifiable language. Regardless of the tongue in which it was uttered, she felt her heart growing lighter with each word he spoke, until she was able to go for several seconds at a time without thinking of Amrothos.

Such bliss was ruined, however, when the doors were opened and a steady stream of Dol Amroth nobility poured in. First and foremost were the royal family, whose appearance would have given Gúthwyn a full-blown panic attack had Éomer not put his arm around her shoulders and calmly reiterated all of the precautions that were being taken to keep her safe from Amrothos. In the course of his discussion with Imrahil, he told her, the two of them had agreed that under no circumstance was Amrothos to dine at the high table. While Erchirion had elected to remain with his father, Elphir had declined to attend the feast altogether, which was one less burden for her to bear.

Although once the plates had been cleared there would be mingling between the guests, Amrothos had been forbidden to approach her on pain of permanent banishment from Rohan. Privately, Gúthwyn thought this an excellent arrangement, for even if he did seek her out—her heart pounded at the idea—she would at least never have to worry about him coming to her home again. But she found that even contemplating such a meeting made her tremble, and upon detecting her anxiety Elfwine would become distressed, as well.

"Do not worry, little one," she whispered the third time this happened, as they were sitting down at the table. Elfwine whimpered, fussing with her hair. Shushing him and at the same time berating herself for letting her uneasiness affect her nephew, Gúthwyn rubbed his back until he quieted. Meanwhile, she glanced around the area, wondering whom Éomer had selected as suitable dining companions for his sister.

He had placed himself to her right, at the head of the table; Lothíriel was on his opposite side, now and then throwing irritated glances at Gúthwyn in which a spark of true hatred sometimes gleamed. Across from Éomund's daughter was Imrahil, who seemed troubled despite his light-hearted chatter. Erchirion was next to him, gazing thoughtfully at his plate and frowning the few times he met Gúthwyn's eyes.

And then, showing just how limited Éomer's options were when it came to people with whom his sister could sit, there was Legolas, directly to Gúthwyn's left and, like Erchirion, apparently finding the tableware fascinating. Upon noticing him, Elfwine attempted to poke the older prince, but his arm was too short and Gúthwyn quelled him with a warning noise. He thereafter reverted to staring, finally venturing: "Leg!"

Legolas glanced up, a smile on his face when he caught sight of Elfwine. His expression was more reserved when he nodded at Gúthwyn, who guiltily realized that he must have been trying to distance himself after she had yelled at him. "Hello, Elfwine," Thranduil's son said, giving a small wave.

"Gúthy back!" Elfwine exclaimed, pointing triumphantly. "Effine find Gúthy!"

"That is good to hear," Legolas remarked. "Where did you find her?"

His tone was conversational, the question asked only to prolong Elfwine's interest, yet Gúthwyn was still wary of the Elf's intentions.

Elfwine, meanwhile, did not understand Legolas's query, and offered, "Horse?" in Rohirric.

Legolas smiled politely, having no idea what the child was saying.

"Leg, who that?" Elfwine demanded, reverting back to Westron and waving his tiny finger in the air. He finally selected Raniean, who was seated not too far away from them.

"That is Raniean," Legolas informed Elfwine. "He is a friend of mine."

At the sound of his name, Raniean looked up, only to narrow his eyes when they fell upon Elfwine. Gúthwyn glared right back, wrapping her arms protectively around the child. Raniean met her gaze and she saw nothing short of utmost loathing reflected in it.

"Ran-in," Elfwine said to himself, giggling. He gave the Elf an enthusiastic wave, which went unreturned—much to the young prince's chagrin. "Ran-in!" he protested, repeating the gesture as if instructing Raniean on how to do it.

Raniean utterly ignored the boy, not even deigning to so much as cast a sour glance in his direction before inquiring something of the Elf next to him.

"My apologies," Legolas muttered, a faint hint of pink coloring his cheeks as Elfwine visibly wilted.

Irritated more than she normally would have been by Raniean's behavior, Gúthwyn said snappishly, "You do not need to repent for his haughtiness. I find it pitiful and ignorant, but his shortcomings are not your fault."

Legolas looked distinctly uncomfortable, though Raniean was still talking to Trelan and did not appear fazed at all. Gúthwyn doubted that, given his prejudice towards humans, he knew one word of the Common Tongue.

"It is not just yourself," Legolas muttered, "nor Elfwine. Please, do not take it personally."

Despite his tone, which was calm and held no hint of condescension, Gúthwyn's cheeks flushed scarlet as she realized how annoyed he must have been with her for criticizing his friend, when she herself had been even worse in her treatment towards the Elves.

_They deserved it,_ part of her said.

"I-I am sorry," Gúthwyn breathed, mortified on behalf of such a thought, subconscious though it was. "I should n-not have…"

She was blushing so furiously that she never saw the corners of Raniean's mouth turn upwards in a smirk.

"Nay, do not berate yourself," Legolas said. "You are right—I would find it difficult at best to ignore Elfwine."

Pleased to have the conversation brought around to him again, Elfwine bounced up and down in Gúthwyn's lap and exclaimed, "Horse!"

"Oh, little one," Gúthwyn said, shaking her head in amusement. "Horse" was one of Elfwine's favorite words, and certainly the one he most frequently used out of context.

"Leg," was Elfwine's response. He reached over to touch the other prince, yet Gúthwyn quickly pulled him back. "That is Leg!"

"Yes, I know," Gúthwyn replied tolerantly.

"Leg friend," Elfwine declared. "Leg _my_ friend."

Unnoticed by anyone but herself, a small shudder rippled through Gúthwyn's spine.

Legolas, meanwhile, smiled tentatively, seemingly unsure of how to respond to such a statement. "Thank you, Elfwine," he settled on.

"He was well named," Gúthwyn commented quietly.

Legolas's brow knitted. "What does Elfwine mean?" he inquired.

"Elf friend," Éomund's daughter explained. She had asked Éomer why he had chosen to call his son that—he answered that Lothíriel had selected it, for the inhabitants of Dol Amroth were rumored to have Elvish blood.

"Eff," Elfwine said proudly, talking around a mouthful of Gúthwyn's locks that he had just begun chewing on.

"Hands, little one," Gúthwyn reminded him, extracting her hair and placing it in his fingers instead. _I must cut it_, she thought, noting that she could now almost sit on her own tresses.

How nice it was, to be concerned by something so mundane!

As if the Valar had read her mind and were determined that this could not be so, Legolas cleared his throat and asked quietly, "May I inquire as to how I offended you earlier today, if indeed it was my presence that vexed you?"

Gúthwyn stiffened, her hold on Elfwine subconsciously tightening until the baby began squirming. Swiftly she loosened her grip, at which point Elfwine scowled and exclaimed, "Horse!"

"It was nothing," she answered, too quickly. "I-I was simply not feeling well. Forgive whatever I may have said, for I was not in my right mind."

She could not meet the Elf's eyes as she spoke, and when at last she lifted her gaze she marked at once that he believed her no more than she did. Flushing, she returned her attentions to her nephew, alternately running her fingers through imaginary knots in his hair and fiddling with the hem of his tiny tunic. Elfwine was delighted by the tickling sensation and squealed in pleasure, eliciting disapproving glances from Lothíriel.

At that moment, Éomer rose to his feet and lifted his hands for silence. The great hall had filled while Gúthwyn was speaking to Legolas, so that now there were Rohirrim enough to counter the overwhelming Dol Amroth attendance. Éomund's daughter surveyed the hall in search of her friends, rather than listen to her brother's subsequent speech: he was thanking the nobility for visiting Rohan, and she harbored no such gratitude.

She was relieved to see several tables nearby at which the guards were sitting, along with Gamling, Elfhelm, and Erkenbrand. If need be, she could hide herself amongst them, for their greater statures would easily dwarf—and thus conceal—hers. Furthermore, while she was loath to discard Éomer's immediate protection, he was bound to want to dance with Lothíriel at some point; when he did, her friends would be all too willing to keep Amrothos at bay, though she had no intentions of divulging the reasoning behind her request.

Elfwine, however, was not about to let her go so easily. As if aware that she was contemplating relocation, he grabbed two fistfuls of her hair and clung to her neck, his head instinctively lying on her breast. "Gúthy stay," he reminded her, yanking at her tresses. "Gúthy mine."

Éomund's daughter all but melted at his words, knowing fully well that if Elfwine ever wronged her in the future, she would never have the heart to punish him, so easily could he win her over. Gently she kissed his forehead, smoothing his hair out and murmuring, "I will stay, little one, I promise." Was this what Lothíriel felt like when she cradled her son to her chest? Gúthwyn envied the queen's motherhood, and wished bitterly that submission to another man were not required to assume the role.

A sudden uprise in the noise level announced that Éomer had finished speaking. Elfwine was reenergized, and attempted to scramble to his feet upon her lap, all the while maintaining a firm hold on her hair. Gúthwyn helped him stand, smiling at his antics.

"Want," the child ordered, pointing at the mashed potatoes.

"What do you say?" Gúthwyn asked him.

"Peas," Elfwine replied impatiently, reaching for the dish in vain. Gúthwyn took it for him, putting a small portion on her plate so that she could help him with the meal. Heedless of her own dinner, she began feeding him, laughing when he tried to grab the spoon from her hand and do it himself. Because such independence would inevitably lead to food being flung in all directions, she did not grant it to him, but nevertheless ensured that he had consumed enough to satisfy him.

When he was done—"Gúthy eat!" he commanded, a formidable echo of his father. "Need eat!"

Gúthwyn was in no mood to comply, but under Éomer's newly affixed gaze she had no other choice. Finding the bread, she pulled it towards her, withdrawing a piece and biting into it to please both her brother and her nephew. It worked for one of them: Elfwine clapped his hands together gleefully, yet Éomer frowned and leaned over to speak to her.

"Is that all you are going to have?" he asked quietly in Rohirric.

Gúthwyn shrugged. "I am not hungry," she responded.

"Hungy," Elfwine echoed, giggling.

Éomer was less amused. "Gúthwyn," he began, shifting his chair so that he might move closer to her, "you cannot do this. You must eat."

"I am not hungry," Gúthwyn repeated, tearing her bread into tiny pieces as she spoke without realizing it. "I do not want…" She sighed. "Brother, please."

Éomer took a deep breath, clearly trying to restrain his temper. "Earlier today I swore that I would not pressure you into marriage. The least you can do in return is promise me that you will try to have a decent meal when you sit at my table. Is that an unreasonable request for me to make?"

"It is not," Gúthwyn whispered, staring down at Elfwine's head. The baby was curling her hair around his fingers, examining each strand as though it were a novelty.

"Then please," Éomer said, pushing the stew towards her, "eat."

Miserably, Gúthwyn served herself a portion of the broth. Elfwine wrinkled his nose at this and went to stick his finger in it; gently, she restrained him. Éomer watched her as she spooned some of the soup into her mouth, making the experience far more uncomfortable than it normally was. As the hot liquid ran down her throat she grimaced, but knew also that if she stopped her brother would grow angry with her.

It took her nearly fifteen minutes to drain the small bowl, though she did not engage in any conversations during that time and had nothing to distract her other than Elfwine babbling to himself. When she was at last finished, she felt sick to her stomach, and closed her eyes for a moment in an attempt to regain her bearings.

The sound of a fiddle entered her ears, its every note merry and uplifting. She could feel the floor vibrating as people all around her pushed their chairs back and stood up, preparing to take part in the dance. Her head beginning to pound, she tried to take deep breaths, yet each was shallower than the last and for a terrifying moment she thought she was going to faint in front of everyone.

"Gúthy!"

Elfwine yanked at her hair, irritated that she was not giving him her undivided attention.

"Yes, little one?" she asked weakly, now shivering. Opening her eyes, she saw Legolas looking at her worriedly. A tremor ran through her and she sat up straighter, trying to conceal her condition.

Oblivious to her mood, Elfwine exclaimed, "Walk!"

Elfwine's version of walking, at least where Éomund's daughter was concerned, involved him standing on her feet and facing outward while she moved around, trying not to trip over both her dress and her nephew. It was a taxing exercise, at best, though it often provided her with amusement, for Elfwine believed that he was doing all the work and would make such boasts to passerby.

Éomer and Lothíriel had already left the table to dance, which meant that Imrahil and Erchirion were the only humans close to her—therefore, Gúthwyn readily agreed to Elfwine's proposition, not at all willing to linger when there were so many Elves in the vicinity. Holding her nephew to her chest, she gingerly got out of the chair, no small task when a wriggling child was in her arms.

"Where do you want to go?" she inquired when she had propped Elfwine on her feet and was holding his hands so that he could not fall.

Her nephew kicked a tiny boot in a random direction, which Gúthwyn turned towards upon ensuring that no one she desired to avoid was in her path. She began wending her way amongst the benches, only able to take small steps with Elfwine treading on her toes. As she passed through the people, a number of them exchanged greetings with her, smiling to see the young prince enjoying himself so much.

Gradually, Gúthwyn found that her spirits were also improving, thanks to Elfwine's bubbly enthusiasm and the constant interactions with her people. As long as they kept well away from the Dol Amroth delegation—which was not terribly difficult, considering how adeptly they had segregated themselves—she did not have a reason to panic, especially when she was surrounded by members of various _éoreds_.

"Eff!" Elfwine cried at that very moment, wrenching his finger out of her grasp to point directly ahead.

Gúthwyn stiffened; her guard rose, where before she had been at ease. Looking towards the area her nephew had indicated, she tensed even more to see Raniean, who had pouring himself a drink from the still and was examining it disdainfully.

"Ran-in!" Elfwine shouted gleefully, hopping off of Gúthwyn's feet and trying to reach the Elf. Had Éomund's daughter not been holding him, he would have run all the way to Raniean without a second thought.

"Elfwine, no!" Gúthwyn hissed.

It was too late. Raniean glanced over at the mangled pronunciation of his name, his eyes narrowing when he placed its source. Gúthwyn felt a chill run down her spine at the coldness in his gaze, which caused even Elfwine to falter in confusion.

"Two Effs!" the baby said after a strained silence, suddenly reinvigorated. "Eff!" He waved at the person who had just appeared over Raniean's shoulder: Trelan.

Trelan inquired something of Raniean, who answered quite irritably.

"Ignore his manners," Trelan said dismissively, nodding at Gúthwyn—whose knees were knocking together beneath her dress, they were quaking so much—and then smiling at Elfwine. "He can be rather insufferable sometimes."

He shot a pointed glare at Raniean, who glowered in response.

"I-I am sorry for bothering you," Gúthwyn stammered hastily, both surprised and suspicious at Trelan's friendly tone. "Elfwine, come."

"I Effine!" her nephew announced, tugging at Gúthwyn's arms in an effort to get closer to Trelan. "Who you?"

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Elfwine," Trelan said amiably. "I am Trelan."

He stepped forward; Gúthwyn automatically went back, taking Elfwine with her. She distinctly heard Raniean's unpleasant laugh before the Elf slipped away into the throng, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

"Gúthy stay!" Elfwine ordered, utterly intrigued by his new acquaintance. "Tree-on my friend!"

Why, why, _why_ had her nephew been named so aptly?

"May I?" Trelan asked quietly, noticing Gúthwyn's discomfort.

"May you what?" Éomund's daughter questioned, holding Elfwine tighter. Her heart was hammering so loudly in her chest that she was astounded that Éomer had not yet run over, demanding to know what was wrong.

"Introduce myself," Trelan explained. "Forgive me, my lady, my intentions were not clear."

"I…" What _could_ she say to a request like that? She did not want her nephew anywhere near an Elf, but she could not deny Trelan without sounding unreasonable. "Y-You may," she at length conceded, having no choice other than to grant him the meeting. Her eyes darted around as she declared this, searching for one of her friends whom she could go to for sanctuary if the occasion ever arose.

_You are acting as though he is going to attack you at any minute!_ she berated herself, mortified by her paranoia.

All the while, Trelan was nearing her. Gúthwyn's stomach contracted as he came within a yard and then crouched down, extending an open palm to Elfwine.

_Like he might tempt a dog_, she thought furiously, a surge of blinding rage coursing through her veins.

Elfwine, however, thought nothing so sinister of the gesture, and gleefully slapped Trelan's hand. "Tree-on, where Ran-in?"

"He went to see Legolas," Trelan said. Gúthwyn received the impression that he had just improvised on the spot, having no idea where Raniean had actually gone. "Do you know Legolas?"

Elfwine's eyes lit up. "Leg my friend!" he declared. He then beamed up at Gúthwyn, who in spite of their current situation could not help but smile back.

"How old is he?" Trelan asked her, watching amusedly as Elfwine examined the finger of his newfound acquaintance with all the intensity of someone forging a blade.

"H-He just had his first birthday a couple of months ago," Gúthwyn answered, wishing that Elfwine were not so enamored of the Elves.

Trelan seemed surprised. "So young," he marveled to himself. To Gúthwyn, he queried, "Already he can speak in not one, but two tongues?"

Gúthwyn nodded. She was about to tell him that Éomer and Lothíriel were each speaking to their son in a different language for this very purpose, yet the words stuck in her mouth and she was silent. Trelan's overtures, innocent though they were intended to be, were bothering her far more than she cared to admit. Beyond the fact that he was Legolas's companion, she barely knew him; she was uncomfortable with his presence and wished only for him to be far away.

"Come, little one," she said with this in mind, pulling gently at her nephew's hands. "It is time to stop troubling our guest."

"Not at all—" Trelan began, yet his assurances made no difference.

"'Bye, Tree-on!" Elfwine shouted as Gúthwyn steered him away. Éomund's daughter grimaced, walking as quickly as possible towards somewhere she could safely ensconce herself amongst her friends.

_Only a few more hours_, she thought. _Then I shall be free._

* * *

"…Once we no longer have to concern ourselves with this month's expenses," Aldor was saying, his voice fading in and out of Cobryn's hearing, "we can turn our attentions towards the winter…" 

Normally, Cobryn would not have been listening with anything less than the utmost concentration, but tonight his thoughts were elsewhere. His eyes, reflections of his mind, darted around the throne room in constant search of three people: Gúthwyn, Amrothos, and Lothíriel.

Quite frankly, he was surprised that Gúthwyn had managed to come to the feast at all, let alone remain this long. Far from belittling her for this lack of spirit, Cobryn did not blame her in the slightest. When placed beside what Haldor had done, Amrothos's assault seemed paltry in comparison, but to someone who abhorred any form of intimacy—and for years had believed herself to be safe from it—the prince's actions were no less devastating.

Yet it was not Gúthwyn, horrible though he felt for her, who consumed the greater part of his preoccupation. Nay, that honor belonged to the youngest children of Imrahil. He could not help but find the nature of the whole affair highly dubious. Even before Éomer had finished telling him the story, he had wondered if it was only a convenient coincidence that Amrothos had sought Gúthwyn out when the stableboys had returned to their homes for lunch. He could not, however, discard the possibility that it had been a chance meeting, for Amrothos certainly emitted an aura of supreme indifference; and, after all, he had never displayed any qualms about making advances towards Gúthwyn when they were in public.

Cobryn might have let the matter of the prince's timing slide, had Lothíriel and Elphir not borne witness to the event. He knew Elphir frequently exercised his horse, but riding had never been high on Lothíriel's list of enjoyable activities and she was rarely seen out in the fields. Why, then, would she just so happen to pick today—and moreover, the exact moment in which Gúthwyn was being forced into such a compromising position—to suddenly change her habits?

Uneasiness had long been brewing within him concerning Lothíriel and Amrothos, and it troubled him that he could not find any proof regarding his suspicions. The afternoon's events had brought these worries to the foreground of his mind, yet even earlier in the visit he had found himself watching the two of them closely whenever they were together. It was difficult to pinpoint the reason why, but there were a couple of incidents that had made him pause throughout the course of the Dol Amroth visit.

The first was that incredibly indecent dress Gúthwyn had donned for one of the feasts. She had claimed that Lothíriel had given it to her while her own gowns were being washed, but long ago Cobryn had learned to trust his instincts and his heart told him that Amrothos was somehow involved. The entire evening, the prince's gaze had rarely strayed from his friend's neckline, and he frequently smiled to himself as though enjoying a little secret. It could have easily been him imagining what lay beneath the dress, yet Cobryn was willing to bet that he had done so numerous times already and had disguised his thoughts far more cleverly.

Then there was the tournament. When Gúthwyn was revealed, Cobryn had at first forgotten how she had succeeded in leaving the royal box under Éomer's watchful eye, so tumultuous had the ensuing uproar been. When the dust settled, however, he had recalled Gúthwyn departing from her seat with Amrothos, under the pretext that she was going to visit Tun. Naturally, that had been a farce—to this day, he still did not know how he had not seen through it—but how had she slipped away from Amrothos? The prince was dogged in her pursuit of her and would never have let her out of his sight, yet somehow Gúthwyn had outsmarted him…

_Not that Gúthwyn is not clever in her own right,_ he conceded, frowning; _Amrothos is simply that much cannier…_

The tournament alone was not enough to connect Amrothos and Lothíriel, but rather the punishment that Gúthwyn had suffered because of it. Refusing to let Elfwine see his aunt was a cruel method of discipline, one that Cobryn doubted Éomer was responsible for. He did not own much, but he was willing to bet the few items he did possess that Lothíriel had first conceived of the idea. It was painfully obvious—to him, at least—that the queen was excessively jealous of her son's attachment to Gúthwyn, and Cobryn would not have put it past her to attempt to weaken this bond.

Yet still there was no definitive link between Amrothos's and Lothíriel's involvement, but for the stubborn voice in Cobryn's mind that insisted it was there, if only he could delve deep enough to find it. He had placed both the prince and the queen under his surveillance; until today, however, his watchfulness had gone unrewarded.

And now he had something. A number of somethings, actually. Amrothos managing to corner Gúthwyn when she was alone and unable to cry for help; Lothíriel deciding to accompany her eldest brother to the stables, when before she had not gone for a ride in weeks. Cobryn did not believe it was a coincidence, and it was naïve of Gúthwyn—and foolish of Éomer—to do so without probing the matter further.

"Cobryn?"

Starting, Cobryn glanced up to realize that all of the advisors were staring at him, clearly wondering why he was not as interested in sheep shearing or the Valar knew what the topic had changed to as they were.

"My apologies," he said, briefly contemplating bluffing his way through the awkward moment and at length sighing. It was a lost cause. He had only a vague memory of what they had been discussing before his mind had started wandering, and he would not be able to focus when he had such a mystery to puzzle out. "I am getting a drink," he announced, tipping his mug back as he did so to conceal the fact that it was still half full. Only Aldor's shrewd gaze discerned the lie; Cobryn did not think the other man enough of a threat to acknowledge him.

Having no choice now but to get up and leave, he did so and began meandering his way towards the still, though his going was slow on account of his examining the surrounding throngs in an effort to find Gúthwyn. He had not seen her since the dancing had started, and while she was not about to seek Amrothos out he was not entirely sure that Éomer's warning had convinced the prince to keep his distance.

Speaking of Amrothos… Cobryn's brow knitted when he saw the other man slip into the hallway that led to Éomer's chambers, not without casting a surreptitious glance around him to ensure that his movements were unmarked. Quickly Cobryn scanned the entire throne room for Gúthwyn, his pulse quickening when he did not see her. She had little reason to go down that passage, but if she were trying to escape Amrothos and Imrahil's son was now trailing her…

"Cobryn?"

"Coh-bin!"

The sound of Gúthwyn's voice, followed by Elfwine's shriller one, drenched his senses in relief and he turned to see his friend standing behind him, bouncing her nephew on her hip. As usual, Elfwine was preoccupied with her hair, but found time to grin at Cobryn as he yanked and pulled.

"Where have you been?" Cobryn asked casually, looking at Gúthwyn. She did not appear to be distraught, and was even smiling a little; a positive sign, he decided. Elfwine was good for her, in that he could make her happy simply by saying her name. Cobryn briefly thanked the Valar for their mercy, for Gúthwyn without a child to care for was like a shepherd without his flock: utterly devoid of purpose.

"I have been walking with Elfwine," she now answered, a healthy glow on her face that Cobryn rather liked seeing. Very briefly, he wished that she would marry, so that she might be blessed with a son or a daughter—or both—of her own.

"Gúthy mine," Elfwine warned Cobryn, a faintly possessive expression crossing his features. "Effine need Gúthy."

"I envy Lothíriel," Gúthwyn confessed. Cobryn could practically see her melting with adoration for her nephew.

Wait—Lothíriel…

"What is wrong?" Gúthwyn asked when Cobryn suddenly stiffened, craning his neck so that he could see the high table. The queen was nowhere in sight…

"I just remembered," he lied, "that Éomer desired my counsel on a matter. Please, excuse me."

"Of course," Gúthwyn said quickly, not offended in the slightest by his rudeness. Rather, she appeared mortified at the possibility that she had delayed him, and swiftly moved out of his way. Cobryn was tempted to reprimand her for this—she was too lenient with her friends and family—but he did not have the time. Instead, he nodded at her and strode towards where he had last seen Amrothos.

He was either too paranoid for his own good, or his intuition was frighteningly accurate. There were all sorts of reasons as to why Amrothos and Lothíriel would have left the main hall, and probably half did not require the two of them to be together. It was a slim chance, really, that even if they were they would be having a conversation somehow related to today's events… but Cobryn _knew_ that they were orchestrating Gúthwyn's misfortunes and he needed only the proof.

As he neared the passage he slowed down, hoping to hear something. The enterprise was successful: Amrothos was talking, yet the words were muffled and in order to discern them from one another Cobryn would have to move closer. Luckily, there was a pillar next to the entrance that he could slip around, so that his presence would be concealed from both the prince and those congregating in the throne room.

_If I am caught, I will be a laughingstock,_ he thought grimly, arranging himself in his hiding place. Not that he was not the subject of many a rumor already, but there were only so many explanations as to why one would be taking cover behind a pillar.

"…You are drunk," a distinctly female voice was saying disdainfully. It was Lothíriel. Cobryn peered around the corner, holding his breath—as if that would prevent them from glancing up and noticing him!—and saw that they were outside the door to Éomer's chambers, though neither of them were making any move to enter.

"Drunk I may be," was the softly slurred response, "but my wits are addled, not my memory. And I specifically recall you telling me that Gúthwyn was a whore. I saw no evidence of that today."

"You were mistaken," Lothíriel snapped. "After all, how would you know the difference between a willing and an unwilling participant? You have never encountered the latter."

"She is different," Amrothos insisted, stumbling over his words. "I have seen terror on the faces of those boys that were sent into battle during the War… none of them were as frightened as her."

"My husband's sister is used to being able to control men," Lothíriel said coldly. "I do not doubt that finding herself powerless in your hands was an unpleasant surprise."

There was a pause. "Lothíriel…" Amrothos began, sound almost as if he was pleading with her, "she whimpered like an infant when I touched her." Cobryn's hands curled into fists. "You were not there—you did not hear—nor did you see—"

"You agreed to this," Lothíriel hissed. "It is done. You cannot change what happened. Is Elphir not better off now, without constantly second-guessing himself on his assessment of her virtue?"

"I think she has far more virtue than you have led me to believe," Amrothos replied. "She did not want what happened this afternoon."

"Then why did she not call for help?" Lothíriel demanded. "She could have screamed—what good that would have done, I do not know, but you reported that she did not even try to struggle."

"Because she was scared," Amrothos said. "Her cries were muffled; she did not have the courage to strengthen them."

"Why is that so important to you?" Lothíriel asked. "Just two weeks ago you were boasting that you could manipulate her as an artist molds wet clay."

"Being manipulated is not the same thing as being willingly led into something," Amrothos pointed out. "And if she was not willingly led, then what Elphir saw was a lie."

"This time, mayhap," Lothíriel conceded. "But must I tell you, again, how often she permits the men to touch her, or even encourages their affection for her? Shall I recall for you the night I saw Cobryn accompanying her to her chambers and never coming back?"

Amrothos snorted. "Honestly, Lothíriel, what could they have possibly done? He can barely walk without his cane, let alone make love."

"It does not take much effort to lie on a bed and receive," Lothíriel snapped.

Amrothos gave an impressed whistle. "I ought to wash out your mouth," he said approvingly.

Cobryn's mouth opened slightly in disgust. The idea of Gúthwyn straddling him—or performing various other services—was appalling. He did not harbor any romantic feelings towards her and considered her like the younger sister he had never had. To hear her dignity being mocked and torn to shreds the way Lothíriel and Amrothos were doing now was a torture he could not long endure.

"In any case," Lothíriel said then, drawing him out of his thoughts, "tomorrow Elphir shall return to Dol Amroth, and he need never know that we arranged your tryst with Gúthwyn. I expect you to maintain your silence."

Amrothos did not speak.

"Well?" Lothíriel pressed, a dangerous edge to her voice. "If you confess, it will be to your ruin, not mine!"

"You planned it," Amrothos countered.

"And you executed it," Lothíriel retorted coldly. "There is nothing to implicate me in your affairs, only you are to blame. Long ago you discarded your conscience, Amrothos—do not fool yourself into thinking that any good will come of falling back in with it again!"

"A conscience is what makes us human," Cobryn growled, stepping out from the shadows. Lothíriel gave a start, whirling around to see who the intruder was; Amrothos merely took a sip from his tankard and surveyed the advisor from behind it, as one who is witnessing a mildly entertaining spectacle. Only the very shrewd could have detected the anxiety in his gaze.

Cobryn walked towards the siblings, unable to conceal his limp but speaking in a loud and clear voice. "The two of you are no better than the worst barbarian—even they, I deem, have more scruples!"

Lothíriel was silent, her face paler than usual, yet Amrothos lowered his mug and asked, "Tell me, is it difficult to make love to a woman when your leg is so useless? I have been wondering this of late. Does she offer discounts to cripples?"

Cobryn, knowing fully well that Amrothos was trying to get a rise out of him, refused to take the bait. "Both of you are disgusting," he spat instead, hobbling forward a couple of feet. "How dare you sabotage Gúthwyn in such a cowardly and despicable manner?"

"We did not sabotage her," Lothíriel stated. "She did that without our help. We merely exposed the truth."

"Some truth," Cobryn replied, "when you evidently went to great pains to fabricate it!"

"You know as well as I do that Gúthwyn is not a virgin," Lothíriel said. "My brother deserves something better than spoiled goods. I fail to see why it is important if we set up her meeting with Amrothos, when it is only a shadow of what she engages in right under my husband's nose!"

"And what do you think Éomer will have to say when he learns the truth behind today's events?" Cobryn inquired, his nails digging painfully into the flesh of his palms.

Lothíriel grinned. "Do you really intend to tell him, and thus have Gúthwyn discover my involvement?" Cobryn opened his mouth, but she continued over him. "I do not think you will, as a matter of fact. Is it not true that, to this day, Gúthwyn remains unaware that you found her book in my chambers?"

Cobryn froze.

"Oh, dear," Lothíriel murmured, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. "Could it be that Cobryn the wise sacrificed reason for emotion? You kept the unpleasant truth from poor, _baby_ Gúthwyn—you sought to protect her!"

"As I told you before," Cobryn snarled, his breathing suddenly heavy, "Gúthwyn has enough problems without you trying to make her life miserable."

"You actually care about her," Lothíriel mused, laughing a little. "How sentimental. I suppose she must provide some use other than what one could pay a harlot for, though I have not found it yet. But do you see, then, why I am confident that you shall not run to Éomer?"

It was lucky that Amrothos was there, or Cobryn might have succumbed to the urge to take Lothíriel's neck in his hands and break it beyond repair. Humiliated, he could only glare at her: she was right, and they both knew it. Cobryn did not want Gúthwyn to discover that Amrothos's assault had been planned by her brother's wife, for her mind was already fragile and he did not think it could withstand another blow. Instead, he would place the burden on his own shoulders, sharpen his watch on Lothíriel, attempt to anticipate the queen's next moves and counter them… with Gúthwyn, meanwhile, happily oblivious to the conspiracy surrounding her. If he could manage that, it was enough.

"I am glad you came to your senses," Lothíriel said, a cruel smile toying with her features. "I see your years as a slave taught you submission well."

Cobryn started forward, his self-restraint temporarily abandoning him, but just as quickly Amrothos had stepped in front of his sister, blocking her from his view.

"I hardly call this submitting," Cobryn spat, seething with rage, "when my silence serves a purpose beyond your comprehension."

"How honorable of you," Lothíriel sneered, her voice dripping with contempt as she emerged at Amrothos's side. "Come, brother, let him bask in his nobility. I have more pressing concerns to worry about."

Amrothos hesitated—was that a flash of irritation in his eyes?—though Lothíriel stalked out of the corridor without looking back once. Cobryn was left to glower at the prince, who went to take a sip of his drink, realized that he was not the only one in the passage, and then shot at the advisor, "What do you want?"

"I want you to leave Gúthwyn alone," Cobryn replied simply, and walked away.


	113. Injury To Insult

**A/N:** Just to let everyone know, real life is going to be a pain until May 9th, which is when I finish taking my last AP test. In between now and then, I have two other AP tests, two SAT subject tests, and a research paper - in addition to school, sports, and work. I am definitely going to be setting some time aside for this story (and April vacation is coming up, so I'll probably get another chapter in then!), but things are going to be hectic until I finish the AP Euro, which might mean less updates. I'm counting down the days until I can start concentrating on this story in earnest! I miss being able to work on it all the time.

Anyway, enjoy this chapter! It's nice and long. (Here I would put a smiley face, except they don't work...)

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen**

Amrothos watched Cobryn leave, a steady frown upon his face. In order to delay thinking he drained the rest of his mug, but the sweet liquid running down his throat did not assuage the guilt. It could not erase the image of Gúthwyn, her eyes wide with terror as he bent down to kiss her; nor could it quell the growing suspicion that he and the other woman had been used as pawns in a game only Lothíriel knew the rules to.

He could not fool himself, however, into believing that he was wholly innocent. He had gone along with Lothíriel's schemes not entirely for his brother's sake, but because Gúthwyn was an opportunity he had not wanted to pass up. After all, how often did one come across a chance to seduce someone who was both a harlot and a king's sister? Even when he started doubting the rumors he had maintained the ruse, then personally determined to break her down and bend her to his will.

For he had to admit, she was not as undesirable as Lothíriel had claimed her to be, nor as he had once thought. Although she was lacking in figure, which his original assessment of her looks had been based upon, she was not totally unfortunate in complexion and even seemed pretty when one ignored her flat frame. There was a naiveté in her manner that was refreshing after a slew of tavern whores, and when she smiled it was as if she could brighten even the grimmest surroundings.

_Listen to yourself_, a voice in his head sneered in disgust. _Since when have you ever been sentimental about a woman?_

He had not; that was what was unnerving about the whole experience. Never before had he questioned pursuing anyone, for never before had he encountered someone who resisted his courtship. The fact that Gúthwyn had was unprecedented, and certainly did not help Lothíriel's case.

Although the case in question was founded on solid evidence—Cobryn accompanying Gúthwyn to her chambers at night, Gúthwyn confessing to Éomer that she was no longer a virgin—Amrothos still remained unsure. While Lothíriel easily could have lied about these discoveries, the prince did not think she was so dishonest as that. At least, not to him. It seemed his younger sister had been partaking in her fair share of deceit lately… the streets were rife with rumors about her rival.

Yet in spite of this gossip, Amrothos found that it was growing increasingly harder to convince himself that Gúthwyn was a whore who needed to be separated from his brother at all costs. He had witnessed her contact with other men, and while he had outwardly scorned her for it, inwardly he had asked himself, _This is it? This is the impropriety that is so offensive to Lothíriel?_

It was not that Gúthwyn's interactions with the men were unusual, for they were. Yet Rohan had notoriously casual social standards—Amrothos suspected that, had Lothíriel not been so insistent on maintaining behavior proper of a Dol Amroth princess, she and Éomer would have been a lot more public with their affection than they were now—and did not seem to regard the rules of rank and status as highly as did the nobility.

Gúthwyn, also, appeared to be excepted from the few standards that the Rohirrim did have. The king himself called her his baby sister in front of his guests. Most of his friends spoke of her as though she were a child, to be alternately indulged and fiercely protected. Not once had Amrothos detected any amorous feelings between either party, despite what Lothíriel claimed. Instead, they were affectionate yet reserved, willing to tease her on occasion but never going further than that.

Amrothos, meanwhile, found himself increasingly in the dark. There was nothing that could contradict Gúthwyn herself admitting to the fact that she was no longer a virgin, but Imrahil's son knew that men treated whores with little respect and this was certainly not the case with Éomund's daughter. There was always the chance that such restraint was because of her relations to the king, yet the soldiers would have talked behind the royal family's back and, so far, only the women were spreading gossip.

_What if it was rape?_

The nasty suggestion floated to the surface of his mind. Amrothos mulled it over, perturbed; even more so, as connections started forming surprisingly fast. It would explain why Gúthwyn was no longer a virgin, yet also why she was terrified of his advances. It would explain why she had frozen at his touch, why she had been unable to mount any resistance to his attentions.

What did not fit, however, were the numbers. There was the rumor that she had vanished for seven years, after which she came back with six-year-old Haiweth. The dates added up, there was no disputing that, but Gúthwyn's age—which would have been twelve at the time of her disappearance—did not.

What sort of a person would violate a twelve-year-old?

Groaning, Amrothos shook his head in a futile attempt to clear his mind. He did not want to imagine Gúthwyn being raped. It would mean that he and Lothíriel had been horribly wrong about her. It would mean that they had put a poor, innocent woman through hell and ruined her chance for a proper marriage. And worse, it would mean that he, Amrothos, had forced her to endure the nightmare all over again.

_She was _not_ taken advantage of_, he told himself firmly, determined that his guilt should not be so. Lothíriel was right. His conscience, that pesky nuisance, needed to be disposed of. He could not go through life second-guessing his every action just because a woman had rejected him. Gúthwyn was not a virgin, she had two children, and she invited men to her chambers at all hours of the day—and night. He and Lothíriel had done Elphir a service by dissolving his wedding negotiations.

Suddenly aware that he was standing in a dark corridor by himself, and had been for some time, Amrothos blinked and started walking towards the festivities. He was spending too much time deliberating; this was utterly unlike him. It was the drink, he concluded. On several occasions, guilty after a particularly long round of his father's lectures, he had attempted to restrict his intake, but always he had succumbed again. Without alcohol, he found that he was jittery and experienced pounding headaches. It was better to simply have more, so that he did not feel sick—just as he was now.

_That can easily be amended_, he thought, espying the still not too far away.

His course decided, he joined the short line and waited his turn. When he was at the front he disposed of his old tankard and got a new one, filling it up to the brim with liquid and then stepping to the side once he was finished. Leaning against a pillar, he took a much-needed draught and surveyed his surroundings.

Lothíriel he saw sitting at the high table with Éomer, her composure admirable for one whose painstakingly-perfected scheme had just been in danger of being exposed. Amrothos instinctively looked for Cobryn next, and spotted him with the other advisors, clearly only listening to their chatter with half an ear. His gaze was fixed on a dancing couple, though beyond a few brief flashes of the girl's skirt they were blocked from Amrothos's view by Lord Tulkadan and Lady Míriel.

In plain sight, however, was Gúthwyn. Amrothos's stomach contracted when he laid eyes upon her, although he was not sure whether it was Éomund's daughter or the ale that his intestines were so aggrieved by. He rubbed his stomach while she exchanged banter with the guards surrounding her, each of her companions in varying states of drunkenness. She was laughing at one of them—Erkbrand? Erkenbran?—and as Amrothos watched she put a slender hand on his shoulder.

_How considerate of her to flirt with the first man she sees when my father is not ten yards away,_ he found himself remarking scathingly to himself. At the same time, he pushed aside memories of how he had long conspired to achieve such intimate contact with the king's sister. _Gúthwyn is a whore,_ he thought sternly. _The sooner you learn that, the better._

Less than a minute later, the final drop of mead slid down his throat. He reached for another mug.

* * *

It was close to midnight when Elfwine at last fell asleep, his grip on Gúthwyn's hair slacking as his eyelids lowered. Éomund's daughter missed his company immediately, but she had no choice other than to return him to Éomer's room, where he would not be disturbed by the revelers. When she emerged back into the great hall, her spirits significantly deflated without her nephew's antics, she spent a long moment trying to decide what to do next.

There was always the option of retiring to her chambers, but Éomer would wonder where she had gone and he was currently speaking with Imrahil, so she did not feel comfortable approaching him to excuse herself. Instead, she searched for a familiar face amongst the hordes of Dol Amroth nobility, growing discouraged as more time passed.

"Gúthwyn!"

Sharp relief spiked within her as a chorus of friendly voices met her ears. Turning around, she saw several of the guards congregated at two tables that had been pushed together, their tankards brimming with mead and their mood boisterous. Smiling, Gúthwyn made her way over to them, offering her greetings.

"Is this the first you have been parted from Elfwine all evening?" Erkenbrand asked her, chuckling. "That lad is quite a handful."

Gúthwyn nodded, grinning nonetheless. "Just like his father," she replied, much to the amusement of her companions.

"Come, sit with us, my lady!" one of the younger guards, Eohric, beseeched her. His face was flushed from a combination of mirth and mead, and his movements were unsteady as he lifted his mug in a silent toast to her.

Laughing, Gúthwyn answered, "Are there any amongst you who have not given themselves wholly to drink tonight?"

Erkenbrand identified himself as such, the only man to do so. "You are more than welcome to join us," he offered, "yet if you will, take a seat beside me."

For a brief instant, Gúthwyn hesitated. She trusted these men with her life… but what if the ale made their thoughts wander?

_You cannot always worry about the faintest impulses your friends might have when they are inebriated,_ a stern voice told her. _You have known them since you were a girl, and not one of them has ever made inappropriate advances towards you. Stop your fretting!_

"I would love to," Gúthwyn told Erkenbrand, taking a deep breath.

Grinning, the Marshal made room for her on the bench. "We are discussing the tournament," he announced, "and whether Hunwald can outshoot Lebryn…"

There was an instant uproar as men in varying stages of drunkenness clamored to have their opinions heard. Gúthwyn listened closely and occasionally chimed in with her own ideas, laughing frequently and enjoying herself greatly. The debate raged back and forth, until eventually half of the Riders forgot what their original stance on the matter had been and sought a new topic.

"It is to Lady Gúthwyn whom we owe the day's best fight," Gamling chortled, toasting her with his tankard. Some of it spilled over the edge. "As long as I live I shall never forget that bastard's face when he realized who he was losing to!"

"He fought well," Gúthwyn said quietly, wanting to give Elphir the little credit he deserved. For several desperate moments, she had believed that he would triumph over her; he had dueled like a man possessed, coming close on one occasion to doing her severe injury. As it was, she had walked away from that fight limping, while he had only been winded.

"Not well enough!" Gamling replied, taking her out of her thoughts. "You would have beaten him, had he not decided to be a coward."

Though she knew Elphir was not present at the feast, Gúthwyn was growing increasingly more uncomfortable. It pained her to hear what had once been a close friend so abused, and even moreso to think that he deserved it. Despite his recent behavior towards her, she did not want to ridicule him, and she still harbored the tiniest, faintest hope that one day they might be reconciled.

"Ah, come," Elfhelm said then, noticing her unease. "The man suffers enough, no doubt, ruing the day he passed up the opportunity to marry Rohan's finest woman!"

Gúthwyn flushed amidst the cheers of her companions, but such embarrassment was less awkward than Gamling's mutterings. Luckily, the guards soon turned to other topics, namely impossible feats that they had accomplished. It was clear to see that all of them were hopelessly addled by drink. She could not help laughing as they made one ludicrous boast after another, their tales growing so absurd that she began to suspect they were concocting them solely for her amusement.

After awhile, she noticed that Erkenbrand was not partaking in the mirth. "Does something trouble you, my friend?" she inquired, yet he did not look up, for her voice had been lost in the clamor of the others'. Grinning as Eohric's declaration—"I once came close to defeating Lady Gúthwyn at the training grounds!"—met her ears, followed by Elfhelm's swift retort—"Did she have both of her hands tied behind her back?"—Éomund's daughter gently touched Erkenbrand's shoulder, trying to discreetly get his attention.

"Yes?" he asked, starting.

"You are quiet," she said. "Is something wrong?"

Erkenbrand smiled. "Look," he replied, pointing directly in front of him.

Gúthwyn glanced up. At first she only saw Gamling, and knitted her brow in confusion. Then her gaze passed over his shoulder and landed on the dancers behind him, a whirlwind of bright colors and elegance. Yet amongst the dignified nobility, one Rohirric couple was holding its own. Gúthwyn's mouth dropped open as she recognized them.

It was Hammel and Aldeth.

"How—" she began, astonished, watching her gloomy child—was that really him?—spin Aldeth around with far more grace than Éomund's daughter had ever achieved. "When—"

"Just a minute ago," Erkenbrand responded.

"But… how did he…" Gúthwyn gaped at Hammel, who was actually _laughing_. "Who taught him how to dance?"

"Cobryn?" Erkenbrand suggested.

Gúthwyn shook her head: while she did not doubt that Cobryn could have taught Hammel in secret and easily concealed such an arrangement from her, she had just caught a glimpse of the advisor across the room and could see him observing Hammel with just as much surprise as her.

"Whoever taught him, then, did well," Erkenbrand noted, looking pleased by her reaction.

"Aye, they did," Gúthwyn said, utterly taken aback by Hammel's transformation. While normally his disposition was broody and his gait a reflection of such sullenness, with Aldeth he moved as if he possessed a natural grace that he had hidden all his life. He guided her easily through each turn—far better, thought Gúthwyn amusedly, than herself. How he had achieved this proficiency, she could not for all of Middle-earth understand. Though Haiweth had more than once obliged her, never before had she been able to entice Hammel into a dance.

Even had she been aware that she was grinning like a fool, she could not have stopped. Regardless of how her child had learned to waltz, she was delighted for him, and glad to see that Aldeth appeared to be enjoying herself immensely. A rosy flush that was never present when Wulfríd was near had spread across her cheeks; often she would laugh and lean closer to Hammel. Gúthwyn studied her, attempting to discern gestures of friendship from signs of interest… she did not think herself wrong in imagining that Aldeth was blushing more than usual.

Evidently, Erkenbrand had come to the same conclusion. "How old is he?" the Marshal inquired.

"Thirteen," Gúthwyn replied, glancing at her friend.

"Too young for a wedding, then," Erkenbrand said off-handedly, but with a look in her direction. It was well known in Edoras that marriage was not among Lady Gúthwyn's favorite topics of discussion.

Now, however, she merely shrugged, a sudden thrill racing through her as she was reminded of the fact that she was no longer under the threat of betrothal to another. For the briefest moment in time, fear was unknown to her. She beamed, reminded of her freedom, and imagined living out the rest of her days in Rohan, Éomer always there to protect her and Elfwine always there to be loved.

This inexorable bliss was hers for nearly half an hour. Hammel and Aldeth continued to dance; Wulfríd attempted, once, to intervene, and was dismissed by Aldeth herself. His posture stiff with loathing and embarrassment, he retreated, and did not have the courage to try again. Once he was gone, Hammel and Aldeth seemed to forget about him, and indeed everyone else around them.

Gúthwyn watched them with increasing joy, only minimally participating in her friends' conversations and content to privately speculate about Hammel's drastic improvements. Nor did Aldeth escape her scrutiny: Éomund's daughter glanced at her so frequently, unsure of how to decipher laughter and smiles, that soon she could no longer stand the guessing and desired nothing more than to talk to Cobryn and learn his thoughts. She was prohibited from this by her own reluctance, for she did not want to miss a single step of what was unfolding before her.

At long last, her life had changed for the better. Hammel had successfully approached Aldeth, and more importantly triumphed over Wulfríd; Elfwine was hers once again, to hold and to kiss; she did not have to find a husband; and by tomorrow afternoon, the Dol Amroth delegation would be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

That was when she saw Amrothos.

"Gúthwyn?" Erkenbrand asked when she froze in terror. The expression on her face, she supposed, was all too easy to read.

Gúthwyn did not speak. She could not. At the still, a mere five yards' distance, Amrothos was watching her, his eyes slightly glazed over from the potent mead but his focus undiluted. He saw her looking and grinned, leaving little doubt that he was utterly drunk; then he stepped towards her.

As he stumbled, Gúthwyn leaped from her seat, unaware that there was another besides Imrahil's son drawing close to her. Waving aside Erkenbrand's concerned inquiry, along with those of the guards who noticed her abrupt departure, she fled the table. There were several crowds between her and the corridor leading to her chambers, the first of which she practically dove into in an effort to hide herself.

Luckily, the throng she had chosen was comprised entirely of Rohirrim, who exchanged greetings with her but otherwise made it easy for her to pass. Hurriedly, she threaded her way around them, emerging on the other side and then delving into the next group of people she saw. Only once did she look back; Amrothos was still visible, checked by the first cluster of Eorlingas but clearly searching for her.

Petrified, Gúthwyn prayed to the Valar that she was concealed, not stopping once as she hurried towards her quarters.

"Gúthwyn!" someone yelled then—Lebryn.

_No!_ she inwardly anguished, picking up the pace. She did not dare to slow her stride, for Amrothos would have heard the cry and perhaps even determined its whereabouts. Panicking at the very idea, she excused and pardoned herself through the revelers, her stomach growing steadily more nauseous as the time it took to do so became agonizingly long.

Finally, she exited the great hall, her heart pounding and her hands leaving damp imprints when she wiped them on her dress.

_Stay calm_, she ordered herself. _You escaped_. A quick glance around the corner at the festivities revealed no sight of Amrothos, at which point she let out the breath she had been holding. Now, all she had to do was wait until he gave up and returned to the still. Depending on how inebriated he was, it was entirely possible that he might forget what he had been doing in the first place.

Resigning herself to at least five minutes of lurking in the passage—just to be on the safe side—Gúthwyn concentrated on calming herself down, a difficult task in and of itself. Pressing her forehead lightly against the cool wall, she slowly inhaled the fresh air and attempted to relax her muscles, which had tensed during her flight. _Breathe,_ she thought, unaware that she was also whispering out loud. _He is not here, you must breathe… one, two, three, four…_

"Well, well, well," a voice murmured in her ear.

Gúthwyn gasped, instinctively pushing away from the wall only to meet a solid body. Hands curled around her waist, each of them adorned with rings. One of them bore a swan symbol.

"Counting the number of men you have seduced this evening?" Amrothos asked, his fingers digging into her stomach. The stench of his breath was overwhelming; Gúthwyn gagged, feeling as though she would vomit, and feebly attempted to wrench out of his grasp. He reached up, seized her by the hair and yanked her head back, so that her neck was exposed to the ceiling. "Elphir was not enough for you? I was not enough?"

He was completely intoxicated, Gúthwyn realized in horror. Squirming in his clutches, she tried to pull his hand away from her skull, but her locks were caught in his grip and she cried out in pain as several strands tore from her scalp. "Let go!" she exclaimed, kicking towards where she thought his knees were and at the same time digging her nails into any flesh she could find. Théodred had taught her that there was no shame in such techniques if she had no other options; now she frantically recalled this knowledge, desperate to escape.

Amrothos cursed, grabbed her wrist and jerked it down. The next instant, Gúthwyn heard a loud _crack_, followed by a searing pain that spread throughout her entire arm. Her muffled yelp became a shriek as Amrothos squeezed tighter, not noticing that he had just broken one—or several—of her bones. "Let go!" she shouted again, writhing beneath his touch. Every movement brought a sharp explosion of agony.

"Whore!" Amrothos snarled. Flecks of spit showered upon her cheek. "That is what you are, I know it, you wanted me in the stables. You pretended to be afraid, you slut, but I never forced you, never, you would have given me all that I asked…"

He was raving. She could not endure this again, she would not. Too long had she floundered, spineless, in his trap; now she had the ability to break free. There was a room filled with people not twenty feet away—surely someone would hear her? She had to try. She would not suffer, not when she had already done so. "Help!" Gúthwyn yelled, screaming as Amrothos tugged on her wrist. "Someone, _help!_"

Amrothos clamped his fist over her mouth, mercifully releasing his hold on her wrist to do so. Gúthwyn bit him. He swore, trying to restrain her, but it was as if a dam had burst and unleashed all the helplessness, all the fury, all the terror she had kept silent in Mordor. Even when she was out of breath, she did not stop shouting. With her back pressed to Amrothos's chest, she was in no position to punch him, and she resorted instead to mindless struggle. There was no plan, no thought behind her flailing, kicking, twisting. She just had to get away. Someone would hear, someone, anyone…

To her eternal gratitude, that someone turned out to be nearly every single guard that she had run by in her determination to get to her room. A score of them appeared at the entrance to the corridor, their reactions slowed by ale but their vision unaltered enough to see what was happening.

"Release her!" Hunwald demanded furiously, withdrawing his sword and pointing it at Amrothos. "Release her, you bastard!"

"Make way!" someone shouted imperiously. Even as Gúthwyn wriggled and made other futile efforts to put more distance between herself and Amrothos, she recognized the voice to be Gamling's. She was relieved to note that he sounded more sober than his companions. "Make way!" the captain ordered, pushing to the front of the group. Someone else was just behind him, though she was thrashing too much to distinguish their features. "Make—"

That was when his eyes fell upon Gúthwyn and Amrothos. Éomund's daughter did not witness the fire that blazed in their depths, for the prince's hold had slackened at the sight of the irate captain and she quickly acted upon the reprieve. With a great surge of energy, she leaped forward; Amrothos tried to reclaim her, but in vain. Despite this failure, however, his hands pulled at her side and threw her off-balance. She plummeted towards the ground.

Just before she made contact with the floor, she remembered that her left wrist was broken and shot the other one out to break her fall. For the second time that night, a _crack_ rent the air. Gúthwyn howled in agony, curling over her hands, but her cries of pain were lost amongst the men's yells.

"Gúthwyn!"

Slender arms wrapped around her, pulling her to her feet and steadying her before letting go. Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat when she saw who it was: Legolas.

"H-How did you—" she began, too confused to be afraid of him.

"I had been about to ask you for a dance when I saw him following you," Legolas explained, his eyes meeting hers. "I lost track of both of you for a moment, that is why I did not come sooner."

Gúthwyn nodded, inexplicably grateful that he had at least arrived.

Mocking laughter resounded in the tight corridor. Amrothos was chuckling, despite the fact that Gamling was clearly restraining himself only for as long as it took him to debate whether or not Éomer would be furious if a prince was killed in Meduseld. "A hard change from falling backwards onto a soft bed, is it not?" Imrahil's son taunted Gúthwyn, causing her to pale. "You slut! You—"

Gamling lost control and launched himself at the prince. His solid, muscular bulk easily knocked over the lither man. Pinned to the ground and drunk, Amrothos was helpless as Gamling punched him in the face. The sound of his nose breaking was like a battle call; the rest of the guards surged forward, clamoring to have his blood as well. For a moment, Legolas and Gúthwyn were in danger of being trampled. The Elf held her back, protecting her, and for once she did not dare choose the alternative.

Amrothos's features were growing slippery with fluids. Gúthwyn wondered if he would die. She did not particularly care.

"Gamling, stop!" Legolas cried as the captain went to strike Amrothos again. Releasing Gúthwyn and leaping towards the men, he was somehow able to hold Gamling's fist back, though the man had considerable brute power. "My friend," he said, "you will kill him. Remember Imrahil, who has done you no harm—he should not have to lose a son. Let me take care of this filth."

Gamling hesitated, but at length conceded. Legolas bent over, grabbed two fistfuls of Amrothos's tunic, and lifted him as easily as if he were a rag doll. Through the haze of pain clouding her thoughts, Gúthwyn marveled at his strength, which she never would have guessed at.

Legolas slammed Amrothos into the wall and hissed something in the prince's ear that was audible to no one except the two of them. Without dialogue to distract her, the pain in Gúthwyn's wrists seemed to triple. She tried to cradle them, but of course that hurt even more. None of the soldiers were aware of her predicament—they were hungry for blood, hoping that when their guest was done they could take over.

"What is the meaning of this?" a voice bellowed.

As if in a painting, the entire scene froze, Éomer and Imrahil the only ones moving. They had forced their way through the crowd and were now at the front, staring in shock at what was before them.

Slowly, Legolas lowered Amrothos, whose skin—what little they could see that was not covered in blood—was a pasty white color. He was terrified, Gúthwyn realized, of whatever the Elf had said.

Legolas opened his mouth to speak, not appearing guilty in the least, but Gamling beat him to it. "That bastard you refer to as your son just tried to take advantage of Lady Gúthwyn," he snarled at Imrahil, not even attempting to be polite. "We came when we heard her screaming."

"He called her a whore!" Hunwald shouted furiously, his sword still drawn. "I see one here, but it is not Lady Gúthwyn!" He spat in Amrothos's direction.

Amrothos chose that moment to lean over and vomit, narrowly missing Legolas. The Elf looked disgusted; Gúthwyn could see the revulsion in his eyes as he beheld the other prince.

"He is drunk," Imrahil said quietly, gazing at his son with an odd expression on his face. It was pity, disappointment, and anger—Gúthwyn felt wretched simply witnessing it.

"Is this true?" Éomer demanded then, turning to Gúthwyn. She stiffened as everyone followed suit. Beyond her brother's shoulder, she could see the crowd growing larger, more and more people wandering over to see what was wrong. "Did he—?"

Mortified, Éomund's daughter could only make a vague shrugging motion. "I-I do not know," she admitted. "He followed me a-and grabbed me… I-I cried for h-help before he c-could do anything else…"

A hard lump was steadily forming in her throat. What had she ever done to deserve this? Had she not fulfilled her share of suffering with Haldor?

Her tormented thoughts were interrupted by a sudden commotion. Éomer, incensed, had lunged for Amrothos; almost immediately, Erkenbrand and Elfhelm, who had arrived shortly after Legolas, leaped after him and were attempting to pull him back.

"My lord, no!" she heard Elfhelm hissing, straining with the effort it took to maintain a firm hold on the king. "He is Lothíriel's brother!"

"He is not worth it!" Erkenbrand grunted. "Let Imrahil punish him!"

"Let go of me!" Éomer ordered, glaring at Amrothos. The prince was wiping his mouth on his sleeve, barely able to lift his head to meet this new threat. "I care not, I shall kill him with my bare hands!"

"Éomer, no!" Gúthwyn cried, wishing more than ever that the Dol Amroth delegation had never come. "Brother, please, I have caused enough trouble!"

"Listen to her," Elfhelm urged the king, his knuckles white where they gripped a tensed arm. "The mead is speaking for you, you are not thinking clearly! Do not do something you will regret later!"

"You are banished from Rohan!" Éomer roared at Amrothos, his features contorted in hatred. "How dare you accuse my baby sister of being a whore, and then assault her not once, but twice in her own home? Coward! If you ever insult the Riddermark with your presence again I will carry out your execution myself!"

Neither Elfhelm nor Erkenbrand thought this sentence hotheaded enough to protest, though both glanced at Gúthwyn in confusion. _Twice?_ she read in their curious eyes.

"Now, get out of my sight," Éomer commanded, "before I reconsider and slaughter you on the spot!"

"I will go with him," Imrahil replied, a hard note in his voice. Marching forward, he stepped over the puddle of vomit and grabbed Amrothos none too gently by the elbow. He quietly asked something of Legolas, who shook his head and looked at Gamling.

Understanding what Imrahil wanted to know, the captain cleared his throat. "I gave him those injuries," he declared, a haughty pride with which he had never addressed Éomer in his tone. "Perhaps it is not so in Dol Amroth, but in Rohan we do not look kindly on outsiders who mock the royal family!"

Imrahil's eyes darkened with fury, yet Gúthwyn did not think it was directed towards Gamling. "Come," he muttered to Amrothos, who appeared to be too inebriated to walk without assistance. "You have disgraced your sister enough for one day."

Amrothos laughed. "Lothíriel disgraces herself without my help," he replied.

Without warning, Imrahil backhanded his son across the face.

In the stunned silence that followed, no one dared to move. Imrahil was known for his level-headedness, his reluctance to display passion in both personal and political matters. Only Gúthwyn knew why he had snapped; the others were shocked, not understanding why the chance remark was so offensive.

Éomer was the first to recover. "What did you say?" he demanded, staring at Amrothos in suspicion.

"Brother, he is _drunk,_" Gúthwyn said pleadingly, mortified on Imrahil's behalf. "He can barely stand, let alone make sense."

Ignoring her, Éomer wrenched free from Elfhelm and Erkenbrand. The Marshals had relaxed their grip; now they swore oaths under their breath as the king strode towards Amrothos.

"Éomer, no!" Gúthwyn exclaimed. After everything Lothíriel had done to her, she had no reason to protect the queen's secret. She was not doing this for the other woman's sake; she was doing it for Imrahil's.

"Step aside," Éomer told her, albeit kindly, when she planted herself in front of him.

"Please," Gúthwyn said, unaware of Imrahil's eyes narrowing at her, "I am sure it was nothing important. You know he says things to irritate people. Ignore him."

"You defend him?" Éomer asked incredulously, his gaze meeting hers. "When he demeans both you and Lothíriel?"

"Brother, enough," Gúthwyn begged, ignoring the throbbing pain in her wrists. "Can we not return to the feast and discuss this in the morning, when everyone—yourself included—has had time to calm down?"

"She is right," Imrahil agreed, his hand still tight on Amrothos's arm. His son was leaning into him, staring blearily at the ground. "Amrothos has had too much to drink—he is in no state of mind to remain here for long. With your permission, Éomer, I will take him back to his tent."

Éomer sighed, visibly frustrated. "Fine," he growled at last, none too graciously. "We will talk tomorrow."

Imrahil nodded and left, dragging Amrothos along with him. The young prince stumbled against his father, looking as though he were going to be sick again. As the two of them passed Éomund's daughter, he spat. Gúthwyn flinched as red saliva struck her on the cheek; stunned, she lifted her hand to wipe his essence away and then nearly screamed in pain.

Éomer did not see her. As soon as he had spoken to Imrahil he had turned to Gamling, Erkenbrand, and Elfhelm, asking them to help disperse the crowd. His back shielded her from the other men; Imrahil had not noticed his son's actions, being too intent on protecting him from the nearby mutinous soldiers. No one was aware of the tears that formed in her eyes, nor of how she had started to tremble.

_I have to get out of here_.

It was her one coherent thought, and she acted upon it.

"Gúthwyn, wait!" Éomer shouted as she darted around him and joined the throng of guards who were walking away. Dodging the subsequent calls of "Lady Gúthwyn!" as well as the few feeble attempts to halt her, she finally broke free from the corridor.

Outside, the great hall was in chaos. The emerging soldiers were quickly spreading the story; Gúthwyn had to hide her face as she hurried along the outskirts of the room, for fear that she would be noticed and swarmed around in a quest for details. Behind her, she could hear Éomer calling her name, soon joined by the sound of heavy footsteps. Sprinting, fear pushing her harder and faster, she came to the doors and realized that she could not open them.

For an instant, she froze. Her wrists hung limply, uselessly, at her sides. Éomer's voice grew louder.

"Here, my lady, allow me."

She was forever indebted to Anborn, who was unaware of what was happening and, upon seeing her gazing helplessly at the exit, hastened to assist her. Thanking him several times as the cool night appeared before her, she said, "If Éomer comes, I have gone to visit Sceoh," and raced out of the Golden Hall.

When, five minutes later, the king flung open the doors of the stables, Éomund's daughter was nowhere to be found.


	114. Drawn Out of Hiding

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde**  
**

**Summary:**  
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen**

The night was warm and quiet. Outside of the Golden Hall, few creatures stirred. A man and his drunken son were walking towards the gates, but neither of them spoke and the street soon forgot their presence. The place where they had come from, Meduseld, was well-lit; everywhere else was dark and abandoned, the houses content to wait until their owners returned.

Into this scene stumbled Gúthwyn, Éomund's daughter, her breathing shallow and a sheen of sweat on her brow. Gasps of pain were heard as she ran down the stairs leading from the Golden Hall, but they were the only sounds that came from her—not even her feet made so substantial an impact upon the environment. Going swiftly, she rounded the corner of Meduseld and soon disappeared. There was silence.

_I hate Dol Amroth,_ Gúthwyn thought wretchedly, trudging along the path to the clearing where Théodred had taught her so many years ago. _I hate Lothíriel, I hate Elphir, I hate Amrothos…_

A sob threatened to escape her; furious, she quelled it, only to endure the same struggle again when she recalled how the young prince's hands had wandered all over her. As she thought of them pressing into her stomach, leaving imprints of filth where they had touched, she nearly threw up.

It seemed to take forever, but at last she reached the clearing. Sinking down onto the soft lawn, Gúthwyn curled into a ball—grass stains were the least of her worries—and held her wrists out so that they were not jostled. She bit her lip so that she could not whimper, for she did not want anyone to hear her and thus be able to find her. Éomer knew of this spot, yet she doubted he would remember it anytime soon.

The agony was nearly as terrible as what she had suffered when she broke her ribs in Mordor. At least then, she had had Borogor. Now, she had no one. She could not return to the feast and face the crowds, not after the soldiers had spread the tale of what they had seen Amrothos do.

_Slut_, Imrahil's son said over and over again, his mocking laughter echoing in her mind. Gúthwyn hunched her shoulders, trying to use them to block her ears, but he had invaded all of her senses and the absence of his voice only made everything else worse.

Her heart was still pounding from what he had done; the spittle on her cheek was hardening. She wanted to throw up, yet if she did so in her current position she would choke on her own vomit and she did not have the will to move. Instead she shivered, wishing that it would rain. She was covered in dirt and she needed it to wash away. Tears threatened to leak out of her eyes, but she blinked them back and refused to let them have the mastery.

Looking at her wrists, she reflected dully that she should have stayed with Éomer and had him call the healer… yet the Golden Hall had become suffocating. She could not remain there. It was crowded, everyone was drunk; she trusted them no more than she trusted Amrothos. Outside, there was at least a cool breeze. It comforted her after the heat of Amrothos's breath.

_I want Éowyn_, she found herself thinking. Éowyn would have been sober. Éowyn would have killed Amrothos and then seen to her sister's injuries—she would have provided assurances, reassurances, and a shoulder to lean on. Maybe even to cry on.

Utterly miserable, Gúthwyn tried to make herself smaller. However, without her hands to hold her knees to her chest, she was unsuccessful. The best course of action would have been to simply disappear, though she was not so foolish as to hope that was possible. Moaning, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself far, far away, where Amrothos was nothing more than an unpleasant thought and her wrists were not turning black and blue with bruises.

How long she lay there, she did not know. It could have been minutes. It could have been years. Her surroundings turned into a blur and then altogether disappeared; she did not hear her name being called in the distance, nor the sounds of several horses being led out of the stables. Throbbing pain spread throughout her body until she realized that that it came not from fractured bones, but a broken heart. While inflicting no small amount of physical injury upon her, Amrothos had done far greater damage to her emotions.

"Gúthwyn?"

Though the voice was gentle, Éomund's daughter flinched as if she had just been lashed with a whip.

"Gúthwyn?" Legolas repeated softly, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. Her head was tucked in between her chest and her knees, but she knew that it was him.

Shaking her head, she tried to shrug him off but failed.

"Éomer has people searching for you," Legolas informed her. "He is worried."

Mortification temporarily overcame her fright. "He has people searching for me?" she echoed, the words barely audible.

Legolas nodded. "Can you stand?" he inquired.

Only the horror that others were being inconvenienced on her account made Gúthwyn agree to try. With a groan that escaped before she could stop it, she rolled over and attempted to push herself up without the use of her wrists—all the while hiding the fact from Legolas. She was clumsy. As she went to rise, she tripped over the hem of her gown and sank to the ground. On instinct, she thrust her hands out to break the fall.

By the time she became aware of what she was doing, it was too late to rescind the gesture. Her elbows collapsed as searing pain shot through her arms, and she let out a choked scream when she dropped back onto the grass. At first she clutched her wrists, but then she realized that this only hurt even more. Dizzy from pain, she rolled onto her side, struggling not to writhe in agony.

"Gúthwyn?" Legolas questioned, his voice laced with concern.

"Leave me alone," she snarled, not thinking.

There was a pause. "Your wrists," Legolas said finally, hesitantly. "They are broken."

"They are fine," Gúthwyn ground out, shrinking from him. If she confessed to having shattered her wrists, he would examine them. He might even touch them.

"Fine?" Legolas repeated, arching an eyebrow.

"They are fine," Gúthwyn asserted, her voice wavering. She forced herself to meet his eyes, but no sooner had she done so than she looked away in shame. "I fell on them; they are sore, nothing worse."

"Let me see them," Legolas said quietly.

"No," Gúthwyn retorted, drawing her arms closer to the rest of her body. The sharpness of her tone was not sufficient enough to mask her fear.

Legolas recognized this, and his speech became softer. "Please."

Gúthwyn shook her head. She was supposed to be getting to her feet; why was she lying here, vulnerable to Legolas? Resisting the urge to curse, she managed to push herself up into a kneeling position, but her dress was caught beneath her feet and if she attempted to stand without the use of her hands, she would trip. Her restraint faltered, and she swore—luckily in Rohirric, a language Legolas had little to no knowledge of.

"Gúthwyn," Legolas said firmly, adjusting so that his eyes were level with hers, "I heard you scream when you fell in the corridor. You only let one wrist bear the impact, not two—did Amrothos break the other?"

"Why would you suspect that?" Gúthwyn asked, more to distract him from the idea of touching her than to actually pretend she was oblivious to what he was suggesting.

"Because you placed your weight on only one when you fell," Legolas repeated, "and you seemed to be in great pain before that. No one else realized what happened, for they were more concerned with avenging you, but I saw you cradling your hands afterwards. Am I wrong?"

Gúthwyn was about to tell him yes. She was about to say that he had imagined everything, that just because Amrothos was a brute and she was wincing in pain the man had not necessarily hurt her, but at that moment Legolas cupped her chin in his hand—she could not decide whether it felt like a breeze's soothing caress or like cold, unforgiving iron—and turned her head to look directly at him.

It was too much. She could lie to him when she did not have to meet his eyes, but when he was staring at her like that and she was too overwhelmed by what Amrothos had done to her to think straight, she crumbled as an old fortress does when its battlements are repeatedly and relentlessly assaulted. Her lips trembled with the effort it suddenly took not to cry; she sank to her knees and shook her head. "No," she whispered.

"How?" Legolas asked as she frantically rubbed her eyes, using her shoulders instead of her fists.

Shrugging half-heartedly, still shaking, Gúthwyn said, "He did not mean to. He was inebriated…"

"He had no excuse," Legolas responded firmly. "You should not make one for him."

"I am not," Gúthwyn snapped, and then sighed. "What does it matter? He has already shown me to be a fool—why not add injury to insult?"

"He should not have done either," Legolas said, his conviction surprising. "Please, let me see your wrists."

"Why do you care?" Gúthwyn burst out, irritated and bewildered. Curse the male race! She wanted nothing more to do with them… except for Elfwine, whose attempts to control her went only so far as to order her to tell him a story. Yes, he could stay.

"I care because you are my friend," Legolas replied simply, "and because you are in pain. You cannot conceal your hurt, so please do not try."

Gúthwyn looked away, staring at the distant mountains without seeing a single peak. She longed for her warm bed, with sheets that she could wrap herself in and pretend that they would keep her from all harm. She longed to forget.

"Let me see your wrists."

With a dry sob, Gúthwyn held out her hands. Legolas had won.

"Have you broken either of them before?" the Elf asked, gently taking her right arm and touching just below her palm. She noticed that he was careful to avoid the Eye.

In response to his inquiry Gúthwyn could only gasp, both in agony and fright. His fingers were burning her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep, shuddering breath. Eventually, she remembered that he had questioned her about something.

"No," she answered, swallowing.

"They seem weak. Brittle," Legolas murmured, almost to himself.

Gúthwyn's eyes flared open. "I am not weak," she declared furiously, only to cry out as he turned her arm over.

"You are not," Legolas corrected himself, "but your bones are."

Gúthwyn sighed. Halwend had often told her this, advising her to eat more and start including meat in her diet. Naturally, she had refused to do both. The healer had also recommended, if she could find it, milk—a drink purported to make one stronger, but rare in Rohan because the animals it came from were not common livestock. She had, however, forbidden Éomer to send out for it.

She was abruptly taken from her thoughts when Legolas lowered her right arm and took up her left. "Does this hurt?" he inquired when she whimpered.

Gúthwyn shook her head, trying to ignore the shoots of pain racing through her.

"Both of your wrists are in bad shape," Legolas announced after a pause, in which his expression made it clear that he did not believe her. "I do not have any supplies with me, so you must go to the healer."

"He is probably asleep," Gúthwyn muttered. Halwend did tend to leave feasts early, but that was not her main concern. The Eye of Sauron was glaring at her, a stark reminder of where she had been during her disappearance from Edoras. While most of the city suspected what had happened—and those who had been present during her reveal, yet sworn to silence by Théoden, actually knew—Gúthwyn had shown none of them the mark, and had no intentions of doing so.

Noticing her reluctance, Legolas said, "I beg you not to delay. Éomer has all but organized a search party for you. He is anxious to know that you are safe."

Humiliation crashed down upon her in waves. She was acting childish, hiding here while others scoured the city for her. No doubt Legolas would have agreed, had she been able to discern his thoughts. Yet his features were closed to her—a brief glance told her nothing, and she was too afraid to examine them for a longer period of time.

"Gúthwyn?"

Starting, she looked up and saw Legolas watching her expectantly. She sighed and conceded. "We should go back, then." A sudden lump in her throat made it difficult to speak. Trying to ignore it, she attempted to get to her feet, but once more almost tripped over her gown.

"Allow me," Legolas said quietly, his words more of a request for permission than a statement. When she made no immediate protest—she was still frantically trying to figure out how much intimacy "allow me" meant—he slipped an arm behind her back and around her stomach, using his hold to help pull her up.

Without thinking, Gúthwyn kicked him as hard as she could, her strangled cry of terror echoing in the air. Legolas's grip loosened, more from shock than pain, if indeed she had caused him any. Éomund's daughter flung herself away from him, feeling sick. Her nausea swelled with each passing second, but she could not relieve herself here, not on the sacred grass where Théodred had taught her. The ground would forgive, even accept her tears; yet it was wrong to defile it with anything else.

Tottering over to the edge of the clearing, where the slope leading down to the plains was steep and jagged with rocks, she crumbled to her knees and vomited. Her arms curled defensively around her stomach as she retched; tears streamed down her face, salty and bitter. She was convulsing so much that she nearly choked on her own bile. Haldor's hands were gliding up and down her skin like serpents, cold and unfeeling. Shackles.

She then felt real hands slowly, tentatively, pulling her hair back. One of them brushed the nape of her neck; she gagged, pitching forward and throwing up some more. In vain, she attempted to twist away from Legolas. Only Borogor could touch her like that.

"Wait," Legolas whispered urgently when she lashed out at him, her panic temporarily overwhelming the pain in her wrists. "I am not trying to hurt you."

Gúthwyn did not understand why he had said wait until she felt a familiar contraction in her stomach. More of her fluids spewed onto the rocks. They glistened in the moonlight, sickening to the beholder. When she was done, had wiped her mouth, and could avert her eyes, Legolas quickly released her. She turned around and saw, to her horror, that he was less than a foot's distance from her. Inching to the side, for behind her there was nothing but a sharp fall and a puddle of vomit, she finally brought her knees to her chest and curled into a ball. Perhaps if she ignored him, pretending that he did not exist, he would leave.

"I am sorry," he instead murmured fervently. Their agreement was shattered, lying in pieces between them; Gúthwyn could not accept his apologies, for that would be acknowledging its dissolution. "I never intended… I thought you had consented…"

Her self-loathing was so great that Éomund's daughter began crying, hating herself for being so weak that she could not even tolerate such innocent contact with Legolas; hating herself for being so weak that she could not resist Amrothos; hating herself for being so weak that she could not muster the courage to stop hiding from her nightmares of Haldor.

_You are pathetic!_ a voice in her head yelled. _Look at you, bawling like a baby over someone touching your stomach! What would Éomer think if he could see you now? What about Legolas?_

_Tell him to go away,_ another part of her whimpered. _Make him leave. He has witnessed enough._

_The damage is done!_ the first barked in retort. _If only you had controlled yourself, you fool!_

The cacophony of this inner argument was too much, and she sobbed harder in response. What was wrong with her? To be reduced to hysterics over the tiniest thing… had she gone mad? Cobryn had told her once that if she was insane, she would believe she was normal and everyone else was at fault… yet how could she be normal when the slightest gesture evoked this reaction within her?

As she wept, incapable of doing aught else, she did not see Legolas's hand hovering over her shoulder. Once or twice it came close to settling on the green fabric, but each time it withdrew, caution triumphing over the urge to comfort.

"Sister!"

Gúthwyn and Legolas both looked up; the former cringed and the latter breathed a sigh of relief to see Éomer running towards them, his features taut with worry. Erkenbrand was behind him but had paused upon entering the clearing, gazing around in astonishment.

"Thank the Valar!" Éomer exclaimed, crouching down and pulling Gúthwyn into a tight embrace. Her wrists were jostled and she shrieked in pain, unable to stop herself. Éomer stiffened and released her, his eyes now searching hers for answers she might not give him. "What happened?" he demanded, occasionally glancing at Legolas. "Are you hurt?"

"She broke her wrists," Legolas told him before Gúthwyn could deny her injuries.

Éomer looked down; he reached out as if to take Gúthwyn's hands, but then thought better of it. "How?" he resorted to asking.

She had lost the ability to lie to him. Even if she were able to convince him that her fall had been the sole cause, Legolas knew otherwise and would betray her. "A-Amrothos," she admitted, her chest unsteadily rising and falling in her effort to stem the flow of tears. "H-He did the first… i-it was an accident, h-h-he did not realize… I-I was trying to g-get away from him a-a-and he grabbed m-my arm… th-then I fell and the other one…"

She lost her train of thought and hoped that her brother had understood. The very contemplation of relating it again was enough to make a fresh torrent of tears spill down her cheeks.

"I am going to kill him," Éomer swore, his fists clenched at his sides.

"No one would blame you, my friend," Legolas replied quietly, "but Gúthwyn needs to see a healer first."

"Yes, of course," Éomer agreed, looking horrified that he had not thought of this earlier. "Sister…"

She was still crying. Éomer's murderous expression softened when he beheld her; he shifted, so that Erkenbrand could not see her, and placed a hand on her knee. Miserably, Gúthwyn reached out and clasped it in her own, burying her face in her other arm against the pain that accompanied such a simple gesture.

"Erkenbrand," Éomer said, not once turning away from his sister, "will you inform the men that she has been found?"

"Of course, my lord," Gúthwyn heard the Marshal answer.

Horrified, she raised her head up as far as she dared. "Do not tell them where," she begged Éomer, praying that he would pass the warning on to Erkenbrand. Her voice was not strong enough to carry to the other man.

Éomer knitted his brow for an instant at her plea, and then realized her reluctance to make their location known. "Erkenbrand!" he called.

The Marshal had not gone very far, for the path was treacherous at best and obstructed by many an inconveniently-placed rock. "Yes, my lord?" he responded, turning back in anticipation of additional orders.

"Keep the knowledge of our whereabouts concealed from them," Éomer instructed, not offering an explanation afterwards but conveying with his tone that one would come eventually. Erkenbrand nodded, albeit confusedly, and resumed his course. His footsteps soon faded away; only then did Gúthwyn fully lift her face.

"We should go now," Éomer said, meeting her watering eyes, "before the others start returning to the hall."

Gúthwyn nodded wretchedly, not trusting herself to speak. Éomer gently wiped some of the tears from her cheek, his touch light as a feather but still sending shivers through her spine.

"Come," he whispered, pity in his gaze that she could not stand. "Let us go to Halwend."

"He is asleep," Gúthwyn whispered feebly.

Éomer did not hear her, and asked her to repeat what she had said. Giving up, she shook her head, and allowed Éomer to help her to her feet. This time, she did not panic when his fingers grazed her stomach, but it was all she could do not to flinch. Her wrists hurt so much… she could only lean against her brother, numb from the pain, and stumble along at his side.

Returning to the main road was nothing short of torture. Her bones had grown more tender since her last venture up the path, and it was almost impossible to clamber over the rocks without bracing her palms against their rugged surfaces. She tried to bite her lips instead of weep; before the walk was done, they were shining red with blood. The fact that Legolas was ahead of her, frequently turning back to see how she was faring, did little to ease her nerves. Éomer would have carried her, had there not been such a risk of him slipping on the stones and harming them both.

"There is no one here," Legolas announced after several minutes. They had just climbed over the last few boulders and were preparing to step onto the main road; Éomer had asked the Elf to ensure that no one would mark their passing. Gúthwyn huddled close to her brother, observing Legolas out of the corner of her vision like a soldier guarding a potentially dangerous prisoner.

Éomer thanked Legolas for his help. "I do not know what I would have done if you had not found her," he confessed. "I was so worried…"

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said to her boots.

"You are most welcome," Legolas replied, and then all was quiet. Puzzled, she glanced up, only to espy the Elf already ascending the stairs to Meduseld. She had forgotten that he treaded so silently.

"When Amrothos… broke your wrist," Éomer began, when he thought Legolas was out of earshot, "did he… did he do anything else?"

Gúthwyn flushed unhappily. "He said I was a whore," she responded as Éomer placed a guiding hand on her upper back, using it to help her move forward. "That is all."

"He did not try to…" Éomer trailed off, but he did not need to finish the sentence.

"No," Gúthwyn replied, shuddering at the thought.

"Then why were you sick?" he inquired, narrowing his eyes.

Taken aback, Gúthwyn responded, "You noticed?" She had not exactly attempted to hide it, but usually Éomer was poor at detecting her numerous illnesses.

"I saw what was on the rocks behind you and Legolas," her brother answered. "Besides, it has a distinct smell."

Gúthwyn could not help but laugh dryly. She no longer noticed the odor, having vomited more times than she could even begin to count. The maids all believed it was some foul perfume that she had—despite the fact that she never used the scented oils Lothíriel was given to enjoy—and were too well-trained to mention it. Now, in answer to Éomer's query, Gúthwyn remained silent, not wanting to say anything that might lead him to realize just how often she was sick.

"Sister, I am so sorry," Éomer said then, pulling her from her thoughts, "for this entire month. Had I known what I was inviting along with the guests, I would never have forced you to endure it."

Gúthwyn shrugged. "They are leaving tomorrow," she reminded him. "It will not matter then… at least, so long as they do not visit again."

"I have no intentions of hosting them all a second time," Éomer assured her darkly, the palm between her shoulder blades tensing. "Perhaps Imrahil, Erchirion, and Alphros… good riddance to the others."

Gúthwyn agreed with him whole-heartedly. "Lady Míriel and her friends only cared about what dresses they were wearing and who was involved in the latest court scandal," she complained. An image of Lothíriel flashed in her mind, but she did not mention how the greatest outrage had revolved around her brother's wife.

"Lord Tulkadan and the other men were hardly better," Éomer commiserated. "The lot of them were highly unsuited for battle. It was almost embarrassing to watch them at the training grounds—you could have bested them blindfolded, had they the courage to accept your challenge."

"Not Elphir," Gúthwyn said softly, wincing when her arm accidentally bumped against Éomer and jolted her wrist. "He was a fierce opponent."

Éomer looked at her. "And a dishonorable one," he pointed out.

Gúthwyn sighed. "I feel as if he is a stranger," she murmured wistfully, thinking of the days when she had anticipated receiving letters from him. "He has changed; he is not the man I was once friends with."

"Perhaps he never was."

"I have wondered that," Gúthwyn said. "Yet he was so kind to me that it seems implausible for his amiability to have been feigned."

Something had happened to Elphir in the months between the beginning and end of their marriage negotiations, she was sure of it. The man she knew would not have ignored her for months and then accused her of being unfaithful to him. She could not guess at what had transpired, but she did not believe that he had courted her with the intent of disgracing her.

"Éomer?"

"Yes?"

"Éowyn has not been here for far too long."

Éomer looked at her sadly. "Imrahil and his nobles have drained our coffers," he said. "We cannot afford to both feed our people and host a delegation from Ithilien."

"I know," Gúthwyn was quick to assure him. "Come spring, however, when the worst is over… may we invite her?"

Éomer smiled. "I would like that," he said. "You are right; it has been far too long. As soon as we have replenished our food supply, I will send for her."

Though her body was throbbing in pain, in that moment Gúthwyn's heart soared, and she grinned all the way to Halwend's dwelling.


	115. The Healer's House

**A/N:** I am officially done with all of my APs and SATs for the year! Between that and my massive research paper being handed in this week, I will have much more time to concentrate on my writing. The past few weeks have been ridiculously hectic; too much studying and not enough writing. I'm so sorry for the long wait!

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen**

"Why am I not surprised?" Halwend asked, holding the door back as Gúthwyn and Éomer stepped over the threshold. "My lady, I am glad that you have come here under your own power, but also exceedingly curious."

"She broke her wrists," Éomer explained grimly. "Both of them."

Halwend frowned. "How?" he inquired, motioning for Éomund's daughter to lift them up before her.

In most circumstances, Gúthwyn would have been indignant that Éomer was answering for her, but now she was glad that she did not have to inform him about what Amrothos had done. Her brother, his fists clenched at his sides, glanced at her whilst replying, "Amrothos snapped one; she then stumbled as she was escaping him and used the other to brace her fall."

Halwend's gaze darkened as he examined Gúthwyn's left wrist—she had not offered him her right, and was trying to frantically devise a method by which he might bandage it without seeing the Eye—and he said, "Amrothos's deed was not an accident." There was no hint of a question in his tone.

Éomer shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Nay, it was not."

Luckily, Halwend knew when not to press for details. "Well," he conceded, "what matters is that the bones are broken. May I see the second?"

The last query was directed towards Gúthwyn, who jumped and then looked to her brother for help. Éomer only lifted his eyebrow at her panicked expression; he had grown so used to the Eye that he forgot its presence when it was concealed.

"It is the same," she tried to tell Halwend, her face growing hot.

"To you, it may be," was Halwend's response, "but it is quite possible that it is entirely otherwise. Please, my lady."

"Sister, do as he bids," Éomer said, when she showed signs of protesting.

"Éomer," Gúthwyn begged, hoping he would soon perceive what was troubling her. "The… the… the mark…"

It was the best she could do. Halwend's curiosity might have been awoken by her choice of words, but she would rather have him wonder than know. Éomer certainly understood what she was talking about: he paled, horror-struck, and she could see him struggling to find a way to work around this problem.

"Is something wrong?" Halwend asked, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

Gúthwyn swallowed, unable to meet the healer's eyes.

"It cannot be helped, baby sister," Éomer murmured.

"Can you not do it?" Gúthwyn pleaded, trembling.

"I have not the hands of a healer," Éomer replied, his expression apologetic. "I can make quick repairs on the battlefield, but my experience lies with wounds. I have had to set few broken bones, and I would not trust myself with your treatment."

"_I_ would," Gúthwyn said stubbornly, despite her tone feeling the beginnings of dread. "Brother, please."

Éomer shook his head. "Halwend," he began, clearing his throat, "can I trust in your discretion?"

"Certainly, my lord," Halwend promised immediately. "My profession does not involve revealing to others the nature of my patients' conditions."

"It is not a condition," Gúthwyn snapped, and then colored upon realizing how petulant she must have sounded. "F-Forgive me," she whispered when Halwend looked at her in confusion.

"Show it to him," Éomer instructed after a pause, his gaze holding hers.

Gúthwyn shook her head, mortified. What would Halwend think of her when he learned the truth?

_That I am nothing but a slave,_ she thought wretchedly.

It was then that, his movements too swift for her to stop them, Éomer reached over, took the upper part of her lower arm, and rotated it around so that the inside wrist was facing the low ceiling. Before she had time to react he yanked at the sleeve of her gown, exposing the hideous mark to Halwend.

"Let go of me!" Gúthwyn hissed, yet the damage had already been done. Halwend's expression did not change as he gazed upon the Eye, but she could only imagine his disgust. She, the sister of the King of Rohan, had submitted to the Enemy; she had brought the symbol of death into her home and harbored it there. Now, more than anything, she wished she had had the courage to take a knife to her skin and rid herself of the ever-watchful Eye.

To her astonishment, Halwend said merely, "I suspected as much."

"You… you did?" Gúthwyn asked after a shocked silence, in which she and Éomer both gaped at the healer.

Halwend nodded. "You were gone for seven years," he pointed out. "No one doubted that you would have returned long before then, had it been in your power. And I knew there were only two places from which escape was impossible, even for someone so determined: Isengard and Mordor. It was only ever a question of which."

"Both," Gúthwyn admitted, her cheeks red with humiliation. "I was at Isengard for four years, and then I was brought to Mordor."

For a long time, Halwend was quiet, gazing at her in wonder. "You must be blessed by the Valar themselves," he marveled at last, "to have survived working under both Saruman and Sauron."

Gúthwyn shrugged. _There are days,_ she thought, _when the gift of life is more of a curse than a blessing._

When she did not respond, Halwend asked, "May I see your wrist?"

Éomer released Gúthwyn's arm and allowed her to raise it up, though she did not look at the mark. Halwend was of like mind: he examined it quickly, pronounced it to be in just as bad shape as the other, and then set about finding proper splinting materials. "Please, sit," he instructed her as he opened a cabinet. "My lord, there are some chairs at the table…" He gave a muffled curse when one of the wooden boards fell on his toe.

Gúthwyn thanked Éomer when he retrieved a seat for her and lowered herself into it, as she did so attempting to roll her wrists around. She might as well have tried stabbing herself, for the sensations could not have been at all that different.

"Do not move either of them," Halwend said sternly when he glanced over and saw her grimacing. "You will only make them worse—and then you will have to stay off of the training grounds for a greater stretch of time."

Gúthwyn sighed. "When can I go back?" she asked morosely.

"From what I have seen, in two months," Halwend replied, bringing his supplies over on a chair. "Perhaps a week later, perhaps a week earlier—though I am more inclined to believe the former."

"You told Tun it would take half that time!" Gúthwyn instantly protested, appalled.

"He broke one wrist, not two," Halwend reminded her, "and I daresay his were stronger than yours to begin with. Besides, he has other injuries that will keep him from practicing longer than yours."

"When next I see Amrothos," Gúthwyn seethed, "and I have full use of my hands, I shall not waste the opportunity to strangle him!"

"He would deserve it," Éomer muttered.

"If you wait too long, he may very well drink himself to death," Halwend advised Éomund's daughter. "I have never seen someone more given to ale than he."

Éomer nodded in agreement, but refrained from speaking otherwise. Gúthwyn, who knew all too well what Amrothos was capable of when he was drunk, did not have the heart to give any sign that she had heard Halwend's prediction. She had a feeling she had not even seen Imrahil's youngest son at his worst.

"May I?" Halwend asked, gesturing to her right wrist. After a moment's hesitation, Gúthwyn nodded, and then held it up. The healer set about splinting it; mindful of her brother's scrutiny, Gúthwyn determinedly kept her face free of pain, though it hurt far worse than her ankle ever had and nearly as much as her ribs.

Once Halwend had finished—the boards and bandages made her wrists look three times as big as they normally were, but thankfully the Eye was hidden—he made a motion to stop her from getting up. "Wielding a sword is not the only thing you must abstain from over the course of the next several weeks."

"What of daily activities, such as eating and dressing?" Éomer inquired. "Will she need assistance with those?"

Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat. "I most certainly will _not_!" she exploded indignantly.

Éomer opened his mouth to argue, but Halwend cut him off. "You may have to rely on others for the first few weeks," he informed Gúthwyn, albeit gently. "It is time for you to let your maids do their job." Like the rest of the Eorlingas, Halwend was well-acquainted with the fact that Gúthwyn refused to let her servants assist her with personal tasks. Most teased her about it, but just as quickly declared it one of the qualities that differentiated her from the loathsome Dol Amroth nobility.

"I see no need to be reduced to the capabilities of an infant," Gúthwyn told Halwend now, determined not to let him restrict her from such minimal exertions. "I am not a child; I can put on my own clothes."

"Not at the expense of your bones," Éomer retorted. "It is better to endure the annoyance now than to have permanently weak wrists."

"I will _not_ have others dress me!" Gúthwyn cried shrilly, feeling sick at the very idea. "My wrists are _fine_!"

"Do not be ridiculous," Éomer snapped. "Even you cannot deny the state they are in."

"My lord," Halwend began, with the air of one attempting to navigate dangerous waters, "it would be better if you simply show her."

"Show her?" Éomer echoed, puzzled.

"Show me?" Gúthwyn asked, not a second later.

Halwend nodded. "Tie your cloak around her shoulders," he instructed Éomer, "and if she is able to undo the knot, I see no reason for her comfort to be compromised."

Éomer nodded. "Do you understand, sister?" he questioned sternly. "If you cannot remove it, do not argue with him."

"I understand perfectly well," Gúthwyn muttered sullenly, glaring at him.

With a dark look, Éomer unfastened his cloak and then placed it on her shoulders. Gúthwyn could not help but flinch when his fingers accidentally brushed against her upper back; she pretended to shiver, hoping that the motion would be construed as her being cold.

"You made a double knot!" she protested an instant later, turning around and glowering.

"As you always do." Éomer tossed the accusation right back at her.

Resisting the urge to do any number of barbaric things to him, Gúthwyn instead set about proving her brother wrong and untying the cloak. Her fingers grasped for the laces, but she could not clench them without her wrists howling in agony. Incensed, she turned away from Éomer and Halwend so that they would not see her contorted expression.

_Ignore the pain!_ she ordered herself. Despite her mind's adamancy, however, she was unable to grip the ties without whimpering. Hastily smothering it with a cough, she struggled to finish the task that had been set before her, but it was like trying to push a boulder up a hill covered with ice: it simply could not be done. No matter how hard she tried to unravel the knot, her hands were shaking too much for her to succeed and her wrists were too stiff to provide the required mobility.

When at last she faced Éomer again, her eyes were blurred with tears and the knot remained firmly tied. "Are you happy now?" she spat, glad that her voice at least did not waver.

Éomer looked as though he were tempted to ask, "Did I not tell you that this would happen?" but out of pity he was reticent, angering Gúthwyn even further.

Tactfully, Halwend said only, "As Éomer mentioned earlier, eating shall also be difficult. It may be better for you to take your meals away from the company of others, in case you need assistance."

Gúthwyn was humiliated. "I will not tolerate someone feeding me as though I were but a newborn babe!"

"It might not necessarily come to that," Halwend was quick to inform her. "Yet given the troubles you had with the knot… there is a strong likelihood."

At this, Gúthwyn had to turn away a second time. A feeling of helplessness overwhelmed her; how could one man have reduced her to this, have crippled her so thoroughly? She did not even have the energy to hate him now—what good would such anger be, when she was unable to lift Framwine?

"My lady?"

"What?" she asked shortly, rubbing at her eyes with her shoulders. She could not even imagine what she looked like.

"There are other things you will be prohibited from doing."

_What else?_ she thought in despair.

"Riding," Halwend continued when she did not acknowledge him, sounding apologetic.

"No matter," Gúthwyn choked out, despite the fact that he might as well have torn her heart in two. She almost wished he had: it would probably have hurt less. "Sceoh does not trust me, anyway." _There goes all of the training we have done together,_ she thought mournfully. _By the time I return, he will have grown afraid of me once more._

There was a pause. "Holding your nephew," the healer said reluctantly.

Gúthwyn whirled around. "No," she breathed, sickened. She stared at Éomer, silently begging him to contradict Halwend, to assure her that there was nothing standing in between her and little Elfwine. To her horror, he was nodding solemnly, finding whatever sense there could be—and Gúthwyn saw none of it—in such a cruel condemnation.

"I am sorry, my lady," Halwend replied, politely but firmly. "You would not be able to pick up the lightest child in the world without there being danger for both of you. Would you trust Elfwine to a brittle grip?"

"Stop it!" Gúthwyn hissed, unable to endure anymore. "Do not speak to me of him! You have no idea—" She could see neither Halwend nor Éomer through a thick curtain of tears. Instead there was Amrothos, mocking her, tormenting her, his gaze burning her skin. His fingers, iron, curled around her wrists. _Snap._ Elfwine was in the distance, reaching out to her and wailing. _"Gúthy!"_ she heard again and again. _"Need Gúthy!"_

_Snap._

"Sister?"

"Elfwine," she whispered, her chest rising and falling unsteadily.

"You may still see him," Éomer reminded her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "But you cannot hold him."

"What have I done to deserve this?" she asked him, half-hysterically. "Why did Amrothos have to pick me?"

"I do not know," Éomer confessed, his voice thick with anger. "Rest assured that he will never be able to harm you again—I have seen to it."

"The damage is already done," Gúthwyn replied bitterly. She thought of Tun, confined to his bed because of Amrothos; she thought of Elphir's face as he beheld his former betrothed and his brother, and the way he had shouted at her; she thought of the meals she would not eat, the horse she could not ride, the sword she could not lift… and most of all, the nephew who would not understand why his aunt could not play with him anymore.

She would not have felt better even if she had known that right now Amrothos was too busy vomiting to hear his father's furious reprimands, that over the next few months he would become so ill that he was unrecognizable, that when she next met him he would be a gaunt, pale shadow of his former self. All that mattered to her now was Elfwine; she had endured two miserable weeks without him, only to have him taken from her a second time in an almost worse punishment.

_Enough is enough,_ she told the Valar pleadingly. _Make it stop. I cannot survive another blow._

Éomund's daughter sorely underestimated her own strength.

* * *

Mercifully, by the time Gúthwyn and Éomer returned to the Golden Hall, no one was left to mark their arrival. The guests had returned home, those from Dol Amroth no doubt eager for the morning when they could reconvene and fervently discuss the night's events. The majority of the citizens of Edoras were sound asleep, judging by the dark windows Gúthwyn passed.

Éomer insisted on escorting her to her rooms—which was just as well, for she would never have been able to open the door without his help—but then he wished to rouse the maids and have them assist her in changing into her nightgown, which she vehemently argued against. They wrangled back and forth for nearly half an hour before she told him, more because she wanted to sleep than anything, that she would simply retire in the clothes she had been wearing at the feast. She made a half-hearted promise to call the servants in the morning, a vow she had every intention of going back on.

When Éomer left, however, she was unable to surrender herself to the blissful arms of oblivion. Images of Amrothos grabbing her wrists and snapping them tormented her, and when she tossed and turned it was only to hurt the bones even more. If she was granted respite from the prince's assaults, it was so that Haldor could take his place, and the Elf's hands were a thousand times worse.

Before long, she was shaking and nauseous. _Why me?_ she asked the Valar again and again. _What have I done to you that would merit such punishment?_

She was not expecting an answer, but it was disheartening when her questions merely hung in the air like the morning mist before it fades, an inconsequential blemish in the memories of time. Were her concerns truly so unimportant to the Valar? Was Cobryn right to turn his back on them, and say that he did thus because it was how they had treated him?

Such high matters were contemplated until she felt sick again, at which point she rolled out of bed, shuffled on her knees to the chamber pot, and vomited. She was trembling so violently that she nearly fell over; her inability to steady herself with her hands made the lack of balance more keenly realized. Unwilling to get up, she remained there for several minutes, growing increasingly claustrophobic. The walls of her quarters were closing in on her again, as they often liked to do… if only she had the power to make them stop! She was too weak.

Finally, Éomund's daughter did something she should have done hours ago. Struggling to her feet, she started towards her bed in hopes of getting a blanket—then she stopped, her wrists suddenly heavy. She would not be able to wrap so much as a cloak around her, let alone a thick comforter. Dare she go to the landing without such protection?

The need to escape at length outweighed the need to be warm, and the most Gúthwyn could do was dwell miserably on how cold it would be outside as she exited her room. Éomer had kindly left the door open for her, in case there was an emergency in the middle of the night and she had to find him. Though she would never go to his chambers while Lothíriel was there, she was grateful for his precautions as she slipped from her bedroom's stifling confines.

Shivering, but unwilling to sacrifice her newfound freedom for even her warm sheets, she stumbled on, her pace and heart quickening as she passed Legolas's quarters. So close to her own… she wondered if she would meet him on the landing. The thought gave her pause, and for a brief moment she contemplated ending her midnight venture.

_No,_ she eventually decided. She had behaved like a coward enough today; she would not rearrange her plans to accommodate the terrors in her mind. This resolution was hardly bold, and it was certainly not reckless, but compared to her recent endeavors it held a danger that, while often encountered, was nevertheless nerve-wracking.

_And triumphed over,_ Gúthwyn added to herself. _Legolas is not Haldor. You know this._

It was remembering it that was the problem.

A minute later, Gúthwyn came to a halt in front of the most assuredly closed doors that, had she the use of her wrists, would have done nothing to deter her from her excursion. Now they were insurmountable obstacles, ones that she could only stare at helplessly and marvel that she had forgotten about them.

Was the pain worth it? If she gritted her teeth, she would be able to push them open… at the expense of her bones, which were telling her in no uncertain terms that they would not in any way support her efforts. Groaning, Éomund's daughter was stirring herself to do what she knew she would regret when she heard a discreet cough behind her.

Whirling around, she opened her mouth to vent her frustration at whom she expected to be Cobryn—she had a suspicion that he marked more of her comings and goings than she wanted to know—only to snap it shut when she saw that it was, in fact, Legolas. Ordering herself not to step backwards, she instead swallowed and met his eyes. Why had she thought of Cobryn, when Legolas was the one who gazed at the stars every night?

"It might be difficult for you to open the doors with two broken wrists," Legolas said, his voice quiet so as not to disturb those sleeping in the hall. Namely, Gúthwyn noted uneasily, Elves.

Wrenching her eyes away from them, she was about to retort, "Verily? What an astute observation," when he gave a small smile and she understood the light-hearted intent.

"Yes," she replied; "I suppose it might."

"Please, allow me," Legolas said. It was a mark of how crippled she was that he barely awaited her nod before striding towards the doors. Opening them easily, he held them in place for her. It took more courage than Gúthwyn would ever confess to to walk past them, regardless of how firmly she told herself that he would not harm her while she was turned away from him.

"How are they?" Legolas asked when they were both outside, gesturing towards her hands.

Gúthwyn shrugged, a fresh surge of pain coming over her as she thought of the limitations she would know throughout the course of the next several weeks. "Halwend—the healer—says that I cannot even… that I cannot even lift Elfwine."

"I am sorry," Legolas murmured as she blinked away tears.

Gúthwyn shook her head. "It is not your fault."

"How long will the bones take to mend?" Legolas inquired after a pause. Too tired to stand, or to care if the Elf remained on his feet, Gúthwyn sank down onto the steps and determinedly refused to look in the direction of the Dol Amroth camp.

"Months," she answered bitterly. _During which time I shall certainly go mad._

"Months?" Legolas echoed, surprised.

Nodding grimly, Gúthwyn replied, "And even when the break is no longer there, it will take more time for my former strength to return—if it does at all. When I am finally able to wield my sword again, it shall have rusted from disuse!"

"And what of small tasks?" Legolas inquired. "Will you have difficulties eating and drinking?"

Again, Gúthwyn nodded. "As you saw," she said, "so simple an action as opening a door has become impossible. Halwend is not confident that I will be capable of taking my meals without assistance."

No sooner had she confessed this than her cheeks turned scarlet, and she ducked her head in embarrassment. Before Legolas could say anything, she hastened to tell her knees, "Which is absurd, for I rarely eat more than bread and that should not be taxing at all to consume. And lifting a mug to my mouth… I can certainly manage that, if nothing else!"

When she dared to glance at Legolas, he appeared as if he were tempted to say something, but instead he held his tongue. Gúthwyn looked glumly back at her feet, trying and failing to tell herself that the next few months would not be as terrible as Halwend had predicted.

"May I ask you something?" Legolas questioned after a moment's silence.

Having a guess as to which topic he would pursue, Gúthwyn bit her lip, but she had never been able to think of a way to deny someone without sounding rude. "You may," she conceded, sighing.

"What happened in the stables this afternoon?"

Though she had expected something along these lines, Gúthwyn could not help but stiffen. Her head began pounding with memories, each of them worse than the last. Casting around for the right words, she instead found fresh waves of terror, relentlessly crashing upon her until she was shaking. Amrothos's body was pressed against her quivering form, his hips grinding into hers and pinning her helplessly to the wall. His hand had slipped under her shirt, and slid across her stomach…

"Gúthwyn?"

Éomund's daughter let out a low whimper, hunching over and wrapping her arms around her legs as tightly as she could without hurting her wrists. _Whore,_ Haldor whispered in her ear. _What would Borogor say if he had seen you with Amrothos?_

She would give anything to have Borogor with her now… but what if Haldor was right? Would Borogor have blamed her for the events in the stable? Beyond a pitiful "no," she had not offered Amrothos any resistance. She had closed her eyes and let him use her—she had all but given him permission to have his way with her, even if it had led to…

Bile rose in her throat. "It is nothing," she choked out, recalling vaguely that Legolas had asked her a question. Sweat was forming on her brow.

"Please, do not lie to me," Legolas said quietly. "I shall not press you if you are unwilling to speak, but it is clear that you are upset—and that is not nothing."

"It was Amrothos," Gúthwyn blurted out, ashamed of herself for being so obviously reluctant to confide in Legolas. He had always listened to her, never making judgments, and had a remarkable sense of when not to force an issue. Could she not, at the very least, give him a hint as to what had occurred? "I… I met him in the stables."

"And?" Legolas prompted softly when she did not continue.

For a second, Gúthwyn thought she was on the verge of becoming ill again. "H-He cornered me," she whispered, wiping at her eyes. They were irritating her. "He tried to… he tried to…" Why was she so inarticulate all of a sudden?

Legolas grew very taut; he was closer to distress than she had ever seen him. Flustered, not wanting him to receive the wrong impression—yet was it the wrong impression? What would Amrothos have done if he had not been interrupted? It was better not to think of such things—Gúthwyn muttered quickly, "He tried to kiss me."

The Elf's posture relaxed slightly, but by no means was his shock diminished. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

Gúthwyn was swift to nod, though such a confirmation could not have been farther from the truth. "It was not long."

Legolas's disgust would have been evident even to a blind man. It was practically radiating from him; yet his voice, while less steady than usual, was calm as he questioned, "He did nothing more?"

It was remarkable how little remorse Gúthwyn now felt for lying. "A kiss is bad enough, is it not? As it were… Elphir and Lothíriel walked in on us before he could do aught else."

Legolas's eyes widened. "Elphir?" he echoed.

"Conveniently, yes," Gúthwyn replied, despite her blasé tone unable to conceal her hurt. Elphir had not even attempted to listen to her side of the story; then again, what was he supposed to do? Why would he believe that she was anything other than a willing participant, when to suspect otherwise would be contradicting all the rumors he had based his termination of their negotiations upon, not to mention incriminating his own brother?

"I-I am sorry," Legolas ventured hesitantly, his words cutting her to the core. She hated pity, and she hated the Valar for exposing her to it.

"Do not be," Éomund's daughter told the Elf, frowning. "Amrothos is the only one who owes me an apology." _And he is currently too drunk to give it,_ she thought bitterly.

"Does Elphir know that you did not welcome Amrothos's… advances?" Legolas asked, fumbling for the right words.

Gúthwyn shook her head. "I tried to tell him, but he was convinced of my guilt and did not give me a chance to defend myself. I… I am not sure if I would have done differently in his place."

"Why might that be?"

She would not reveal the details of the position she and Amrothos had been discovered in; they were too mortifying. Instead she shivered and replied, "When one pays heed to rumors, it is all too easy to discard other possible explanations."

"Ever you seek to justify the actions of Imrahil's sons," Legolas said. His tone was not accusatory, merely curious, but Gúthwyn winced nevertheless.

"If I did not, then I would have to examine my own more carefully," she responded, an instant later blushing at her candor. Though the night air was cold—at least to her, for Legolas did not appear troubled by the breeze—her face grew hot. Why did she always end up divulging more to him than she intended?

"You cannot blame yourself for the way they have treated you," Legolas told her. "It was entirely out of your power."

Gúthwyn shook her head. "I never struggled against Amrothos," she whispered, her eyes suddenly blurring with hot tears. Haldor was right. No matter what Éomer said, she was a whore. If she had truly not wanted Amrothos's touch, she would have fought against him. She had done so at the feast, but it would not take back her submission in the stables and she was a fool to believe that it had. For weeks, there had been warning signs and she had ignored them. Éomer, Cobryn, Elfhelm—she had a host of people whom she could have confided in or petitioned for protection, yet she had not. For her stupidity alone, she deserved Amrothos's assault.

_That is a lie! _a voice cried out indignantly. _You never asked him to kiss you! Your fear prevented you from struggling, not your desires! You know you cannot tolerate a man's intimate caress—why are you letting Haldor persuade you otherwise?_

_Whore,_ another part of her snarled. _Harlot. Slut. You are not fitting for any better title! Even after Mordor, you dreamed of lying with Borogor and having his child… no wonder Elphir is sickened by you!_

_But I love Borogor,_ Gúthwyn protested weakly, encouraged by the first voice. _That is different._

_Love?_ the other one echoed, its derisive, gleeful laughter reverberating in her ears. _Love? What does that have to do with spreading your legs for someone? Haldor, Borogor, Amrothos; they are all the same, you idiot, if you invite the advances of one you invite the others! Tell us, fool_—Gúthwyn moaned in terror as more figures appeared in the shadowy recesses of her mind—_why did you not fend Amrothos off?_

_I was scared,_ Gúthwyn whimpered, not realizing that she had spoken aloud.

_Liar,_ the voices hissed. _You knew he would eventually have his way with you and you did nothing!_

"Gúthwyn!"

Before Éomund's daughter had time to scream, a pair of hands gripped her shoulders so tightly that she could feel the fingers grating against the bones. Gasping, she found herself staring straight into Legolas's piercing blue eyes. Her own were wet with tears. Daunted by his strength, she did not dare attempt to move away, and could only quiver in his grasp, petrified.

"You were rocking back and forth," Legolas murmured, loosening his hold on her somewhat. "You did not speak when I called your name—are you ill?"

Gúthwyn shook her head. _Make it stop,_ she wanted so desperately to tell him. _Make the voices go away._ She clamped her mouth shut, aware of how mad she would seem with such a request.

"What Amrothos did was _not_ your fault," Legolas reiterated when she did not reply. "It is an insult to say otherwise."

She looked away. He was only saying this because he had not witnessed her docility, because he had not been there when she clenched her fists and let Amrothos molest her. "I am a coward."

The truth rang painfully in her ears. Ever since she had killed Haldor, she had grown weak, complacent. She had lost the ability to stand up for herself—she could not even tell Legolas to release her, and she resorted to hoping that he would.

"You are _not_ a coward," the Elf instead swore, crouching down so that their faces were level. "There are few who could survive what you have been through, and I would be lying if I claimed to be familiar with half of it. Seven years at Isengard and Mordor is no small thing to have endured; do not let what happened today contest that."

The voices muttered at this, but Gúthwyn felt her spirits lifting slightly. At least someone did not think of her as weak.

"I may not be as well acquainted with you as others," Legolas finished, releasing her shoulders but still holding her gaze, "yet the woman I do know is anything but a coward."

Though not wholly convinced, Gúthwyn was pleased when, in the face of Legolas's conviction, the voices lost much of their strength and gradually retreated.

"Th-Thank you," she said, for reasons the Elf was unaware of.

"You are welcome," Legolas replied. As she watched, he lowered himself onto the steps. She was shocked to find that, though he was sitting a mere two feet away from her, rather than the usual three to five, her heart was not hammering as much as she thought it would.

That was when a moment of boldness seized her, a stark contrast to the paralyzing fear that had enmeshed her but seconds ago. If she could be so close to Legolas and not panic, did that mean Haldor no longer controlled her every emotion? If the voices had cowed when challenged by the prince, was it possible that they were in the wrong? And had she not, after all, tried to stop Amrothos? She had refused him, once; and even if it was only once, did it not count for something?

If all of this were true… then perhaps she really was on the verge of recovery. Maybe Haldor would fade and permit her to enjoy Legolas's company. Maybe the voices would be silenced forever, and her mind would be free from their incessant clamoring. Maybe the memory of Amrothos would disappear, until it ceased to exist. Imagining what her life would be like then, Gúthwyn was suddenly overcome with the urge to tread new waters, to test previously unapproachable boundaries.

"Legolas," she said slowly, hardly daring to believe that she was doing this, both terrified and excited at the same time.

"Yes?" he asked, his undivided attention upon her. She only felt the tiniest ribbon of nervousness winding itself around her mind's prison.

"Does your offer of a walk still stand?"

A month ago, Legolas had suggested a stroll during one of their midnight encounters. Flustered and suspicious of his intentions, Éomund's daughter had declined, but now she wondered if it might not be the best course of action to get on her feet and clear her mind. Perhaps it would soothe her nerves to wander along the main street, to revel in the city that would be hers again once the Dol Amroth delegation had left.

Now, Legolas smiled. The ribbon was cut; the keys to her cell turned. She was free, if just for that night. "It has been waiting only for your acceptance."

With some difficulty, Gúthwyn rose to her feet. _You can do this,_ she told herself. _Haldor is dead, the voices are but figments of your imagination, and you are _not_ a whore._

"Shall we?" she asked.


	116. Legolas's Advice

**A/N:** Luckily for you guys, when I went to post this chapter I realized that it was eighteen pages long! My chapters are normally about half that, so I divided the chapter and now I'll be posting two in rapid succession! (And the second one has the moment you've all been waiting for...)

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:  
**The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen**

"I never understood why so many jewels were necessary," Gúthwyn remarked to Legolas, laughing a little as they passed Aldeth's house. Her grin became wider as she thought of Hammel finally working up the courage to ask the girl to dance. "They are nice to look at, I suppose, but when there are so many that the viewer is blinded—!"

Legolas nodded. He had spent the last five minutes listening to her happily abuse the Dol Amroth delegation—though she was not fooled as to his innocence, for she knew he was subtly encouraging her—and was smiling at her distraction. "They certainly make it difficult to approach them."

"Not that any of us would want to," Gúthwyn muttered, speaking on behalf of the Eorlingas. "Their manners are repulsive!" She was thinking, in particular, of Lady Míriel, who was the foulest woman she had had the misfortune to meet. It was a mark of how loathsome Tulkadan's wife was that Gúthwyn had actually felt sorry for Lothíriel on her account.

"They are rather lacking," Legolas agreed, clearly amused at her grumbling, though not in a way that made light of her irritation. "I wonder what it must be like to rule them."

Gúthwyn shuddered, inwardly delighting in the fact that she was no longer thinking of what Amrothos had done. "You could not pay me enough to take Imrahil's position! It is a wonder the poor man has not abdicated and gone to…" She searched for something that would show just how miserable living with the nobility must be. "Live in a cave!" she decided.

Legolas chuckled at this. "Is that what you would do?" he asked.

"Anything is better than that court," Gúthwyn confirmed, shivering as a cool breeze met her cheeks. "They are wretched people, the lot of them."

_Especially Elphir and Amrothos,_ she thought savagely, wrapping her arms around her chest—no small feat when she could not use her wrists—in a vain attempt to stave off some of the chill.

"Are you cold?" Legolas inquired then, noting her actions.

Gúthwyn shook her head, not wanting to seem weak, but the wind chose that instant to send a frigid gust her way, and her teeth were chattering even as she denied her discomfort.

"I am hard put to decide who is worse: you, or Aragorn," Legolas said, looking as though he were tempted to roll his eyes. She knew Cobryn would have. "Both of you are so determined to conceal your misery that you spurn the help of others, even when it would be better to accept."

"That is not true," Gúthwyn protested immediately, painfully aware that every hair on her body was standing on end. She could almost hear Cwene scolding her. _You are too thin, child, that is why you are never warm! It does not take a wizard to see that!_

Legolas sighed. "Here," he said, reaching up and unclasping his cloak. It was the one he had been given in Lothlórien; Gúthwyn's was buried somewhere in her drawers, used exclusively in the worst of weathers and even then only grudgingly. It had too much of an Elvish feel to it, and her time in the land of the Golden Wood was not an experience she wished to dwell on.

With that in mind, Gúthwyn barely glanced at the garment Legolas was now offering her before answering stiffly, "No, thank you."

Legolas raised an eyebrow, causing her to realize how childish she sounded—and how she had just defeated her entire argument. Blushing with embarrassment, she stared at the ground. They had come to a halt, so she had ample opportunity to memorize the patterns of the boots that had trodden this street before them. It was certainly better than meeting Legolas's eyes.

"Are you sure?" the Elf inquired, purposely positioning the cloak so that it was in her view. They both knew she was freezing.

Flustered, Gúthwyn stuttered, "I-I cannot… I cannot put it on…" She held up her wrists. At least they were not exposed to the air, being heavily bandaged.

"May I?"

Gúthwyn hesitated. She was already pushing the limits of her recovery; was she strong enough to go further, to have him touch her—even if it was for something so simple as draping a cloak around her shoulders? Would it be better to endure the cold than his ministrations? The temperature was not so low that her health was in any danger.

_No, but you are miserable,_ part of her retorted.

_Oh, and you will be less so when Legolas lays his hands on you?_

More to shut the voices up than anything, Gúthwyn lifted her chin defiantly and said, "Fine."

As Legolas moved closer to her, however, she regretted her decision. He was less than a foot away; every single boundary had been so thoroughly broken that she could scarcely breathe for anxiety. Her entire body was tense as he reached out, and she shut her eyes in terror when he lifted her tresses up so that they would not get caught in the cloak.

"Forgive me if I seem to pry, but why do you alone of your people have dark hair?" Legolas inquired when he was satisfied that her locks were out of harm's way.

"M-My grandmother," Gúthwyn explained. "Morwen Steelsheen. She was a Gondorian… oh!"

She gave a small gasp as Legolas's fingers brushed across her neck. The skin was sensitive there; it was both a shiver and a shudder that rippled down her spine, causing her breath to catch in her throat.

"My apologies," Legolas said fervently. "Did the clasp prick you?"

"N-No," Gúthwyn whispered, trembling.

"Steelsheen?" he questioned after a pause, resuming his work. Gúthwyn felt the fabric settling over her shoulders, covering her front rather than her back. Without her wrists, she would not be able to hold the cloak around her, and this arrangement was far more convenient.

"For her grace," Gúthwyn replied, opening her eyes. As she did so, Legolas stepped back, the garment now securely upon her. "Thank you," she murmured, far warmer because of his generosity than she would ever admit.

"You are most welcome," Legolas answered, smiling. By wordless consent, they resumed their walk, meandering down the street in companionable silence. Gúthwyn briefly wondered what the Eorlingas would think if any of them happened to glance out of their windows, but the vast majority of them had consumed their fill at the feast and would barely awaken in time to bid farewell to the Dol Amroth delegation—not that any of them were sorry to see the nobility go—let alone rouse themselves at this hour.

She and Legolas went all the way down to the gates and then turned back, gradually falling into light conversation and maintaining it until they returned to Meduseld. Amrothos and Elphir were names never again mentioned; instead, they discussed the less controversial games in the tournament, the antics of Elfwine, and their plans after this visit. Gúthwyn had little of the latter, save only to heal her wrists and avoid marriage, but Legolas spoke of developments he hoped to introduce to his colony, as well as projects with Aragorn that would contribute to the restoration of Gondor.

When at last they climbed the stairs and passed through the great hall, they paused outside of Legolas's quarters. It was a few minutes before Gúthwyn's inquiries about King Elessar were finished; but when they had been sated she lingered, stirring herself to say what she would not be able to tomorrow, when they would be surrounded by people and in a hurry.

"Thank you," she began tentatively, summoning her courage. Legolas did not yet respond, sensing that she was not done. "Th-Thank you for… for helping me avoid Amrothos this month."

Legolas shook his head. "I did less than I could have," he replied.

"You did more than I asked," Gúthwyn countered, recalling the time he had escorted her out of the city so that Amrothos would not suspect her of lying to him. She had originally told Imrahil's son that Legolas was to ride with her for the afternoon, yet she had never bound the Elf to the arrangement and instead he had taken it upon himself to keep it.

Assisting her in evading Amrothos, however, was not the only service Legolas had provided for her. "Also… thank you for listening," Éomund's daughter finished, a small smile coming to her face. "There are not many in whom I have confided this past month—even Éomer did not learn the full extent of my troubles until this afternoon."

"I am honored," Legolas said quietly, "to have earned your trust in this regard. But I beg you to extend the same distinction to your brother."

Frowning, Gúthwyn informed him, "He has enough to worry about, not to mention a family to care for, without my adding to his concerns. I have lived here on his grace for half a decade—I will not return such kindness with complaints."

"He loves you," Legolas replied firmly. "The one thing you have ever been able to fault him for is that he is oblivious to your feelings; yet that can be easily remedied, if you will it. He is a busy man, you are right, but just as he makes time for Lothíriel and Elfwine, he shall make time for you if you ask it of him. I know he struggles to understand you—it is my belief that if he had succeeded, Amrothos would have found it much more difficult to take advantage of you today."

Gúthwyn opened her mouth and then closed it, unable to form the proper words. Deep down, she was painfully aware that Legolas was right. She often blamed Éomer for being clueless about her needs, but she had never been forthcoming with information to him and he based his decisions around the few fragmented details of her past he had. Would he have so readily agreed to a marriage with Elphir if she had told him what Borogor meant to her?

Yet confessing these secrets to Éomer would mean probing deep into the memories of Mordor, even of Isengard, that she had long sought to bury. It would challenge her recovery and, in the end, she might not emerge the better for the experience. Now that she was no longer under threat of wedding another, and the Dol Amroth delegation was returning to the Sea, did she really need to reopen the old wounds?

"Gúthwyn?"

For the second occasion that evening, she found herself coming out of a reverie at the sound of Legolas's voice. Her decision made—for the moment, at least—she shook her head almost imperceptibly and said, "Thank you."

If Legolas was disappointed in her, he hid it well. This made it easier for Gúthwyn to look at him as he nodded and replied, "Goodnight, Gúthwyn."

"Goodnight," she whispered. After a mildly awkward moment in which she recalled that she had not yet given him back his cloak, and permitted him to remove it, she retired to her chambers, still feeling his touch upon her neck.

* * *

"My lady?"

It was a timid voice that awoke Gúthwyn later on. Groaning, Éomund's daughter buried her head under the blankets, but she could still hear it. "My lady, please," it continued, growing more and more anxious as the seconds lengthened. "The guests are leaving in three hours…"

"Three hours?" Gúthwyn demanded, suddenly wide awake and furious at Cobryn for wasting her precious sleeping time. "I could have spent two of those in bed, thank you very—"

That was when she realized that it was not, in fact, Cobryn who had been assigned the duty of getting her out of bed. Her protests died on her lips mere seconds after she indignantly shoved the covers down with her forearms and saw Mildwen standing there, looking as if she had been slapped.

"Mildwen?" Éomund's daughter asked, bewildered. "Forgive me, I thought you were Cobryn… why does Éomer need me so early?" Mildwen was too meek to have come here on her own resolve; Gúthwyn knew she would not have agreed to disturb her lady's rest unless the king himself ordered her to do so.

Visibly relieved that Gúthwyn was no longer angry at her, Mildwen answered, "He told us that you would require assistance dressing, my lady."

Gúthwyn deflated: she had forgotten about that. Her wrists, blissfully well-behaved during her sleep, chose that very moment to begin aching. She cast a glance at Mildwen, wondering if she had been informed of the pact the two siblings had made, as a result of which the dressing problem had been delayed until this morning.

It was worth a try. "I am grateful for his concern," she told Mildwen, smiling, "but I do not need any help. I am sorry that he made you go out of your way."

Mildwen flushed. "Begging your pardon, my lady… the king said that you were not to do it yourself, even if you claimed that you could. He said that your wrists need to heal—do they hurt, my lady?"

"A little," Gúthwyn allowed, her heart starting to pound. She could not risk the maids undressing her. They had seen her in naught but her shift before, yet there was the chance that in the process of removing her outerwear they would accidentally disturb the flimsy fabric and uncover the hideous scars adorning her body. Why did Éomer not understand this?

A nagging voice reminded her of Legolas's words from their walk, but just as quickly she brushed them aside. "Mildwen, please, kindly tell Éomer that his concerns are unnecessary."

"But—"

"Mildwen, please," Gúthwyn said, knowing she would win this argument. Had it been with Cwene, she would not have stood a chance, yet Mildwen was terrified of displeasing her mistress—Éomund's daughter was not entirely sure why, for she had never treated the woman with anything less than absolute respect—and would easily defer to her.

This proved to be the case now. "A-As you wish, my lady," Mildwen muttered, embarrassed. "I-If you will excuse me…"

"Of course," Gúthwyn agreed happily.

_Now, to recapture that lost sleep, _she thought as Mildwen left. It was a long shot, and now that she was awake she might not be able to let go of her consciousness, but it was a possibility. Yawning, she buried herself under the comforter once more, hoping that within the next few minutes she would be lost to the world.

Unfortunately, plans—especially ones regarding sleep—have the irritating tendency of falling apart whenever it inconveniences the creator most, and no sooner had Gúthwyn's breathing slowed down than the door burst open.

"Sister, I will not have this!"

Gúthwyn flinched. She barely had time to curse under her breath before the sheets were pulled off of her, replacing their warmth with a blast of cold air. Looking up, she saw Éomer glaring down at her in irritation, though from the expression on his face she could tell that he had expected this resistance all along. As he confronted her, Mildwen hovered just outside of the door, everything about her posture miserable.

"We had an agreement," Éomer announced.

Gúthwyn rolled her eyes. "Did you really think I intended to keep it?"

"I had hoped you would not lie to me."

"Éomer…" Gúthwyn sighed, struggling to sit up without her hands. "I do not want the maids to see me." She spoke quietly, so that there was no danger of Mildwen overhearing.

"We all must sacrifice our pride sometime," Éomer told her.

"Have I not done more than my fair share of that?" Gúthwyn asked bitterly. "I cannot bear the thought of another undressing me as though I were no more than an infant. Why will you not allow me to retain what little dignity I have left?"

"You say 'infant,'" Éomer murmured, mindful of Mildwen's presence as well, "but do you not want the maids' help because of… because of what he did?"

Legolas's words echoed hauntingly in her mind. _"I know he struggles to understand you," the Elf said gently—"it is my belief that if he had succeeded, Amrothos would have found it much more difficult to take advantage of you today."_

"Partly," Gúthwyn whispered, trembling. "Yet… there will come a point when I have to remove my shift, and even before then there is danger that it might be dislodged while my gown is being taken care of. I cannot… I cannot let them… brother, do you not understand? Were you not there when Aragorn healed me? You, he, Legolas, and Éowyn alone know, and even that is too many."

"We will think of a way to avoid that," Éomer promised swiftly, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "But in the meantime—"

"No, brother," she replied softly. "Not the maids."

Éomer fell silent. "Who, then, would you have do it?" he asked after a minute, knitting his brow.

Gúthwyn was checked by this question, and startled to find that she did not have an immediate answer. She could think of dozens whom she did _not_ want to be charged with the task of dressing her—it was determining whom she _did_ that was the problem. Temporarily stumped, she racked her mind for someone she trusted with such a humiliating chore. Had she been living in Edoras still, Éowyn would have been the perfect choice, but she had Faramir to thank for her sister's absence.

At length, she decided upon a couple of names, though she withheld them out of reluctance and mortification. The truth was, she loathed the idea of the servants seeing her unclad. There was one other woman she would trust not to gossip, yet she would never ask Hildeth to assume such a duty, for Hildeth would refuse. That left the men, only two of which she would permit to assist her. But did she dare to ask them in the first place?

"Sister?"

Gúthwyn's cheeks were bright red as she met her brother's gaze. "I-I…"

Éomer raised an eyebrow, realizing that she had made a choice and yet was too embarrassed to tell him. "Please, speak," he encouraged her, "or the servants must suffice."

Though the prospect horrified her, Gúthwyn could only press her lips together in mortification. She did not have the gift of words; what she intended as an innocent petition might be viewed as appalling by anyone who learned of it.

"May I guess?" Éomer asked.

Starting to understand why she had been woken up three hours before she needed to be anywhere, Gúthwyn nodded.

"You do not want the maids," Éomer mused, "and I know you are not close friends with any other woman, so it must be a man. Am I correct?"

Again, Gúthwyn nodded.

"Is it myself?"

Surprised by the lack of trepidation on his face, Gúthwyn stuttered, "Y-Yes…" Her cheeks, however, were still flaming pink, and Éomer cast around for a second name.

"Cobryn?" he finally decided on. The twitching of a muscle near his jaw betrayed his displeasure, but Gúthwyn had expected it and was more concerned about what her friend might say.

"Yes," she said again. "Th-That is all."

Éomer sighed. "Your requests are difficult," he informed her. "I shall gladly help you when I am able, yet I am loath to let another man do the same, honorable though Cobryn is. And I would never permit him to…" He trailed off, frowning suddenly. "In Isengard," he said gruffly, "did he ever, ah…"

Aware of what he was asking, Gúthwyn nodded her head. "We changed beneath our sheets," she explained. The practice had taken her several days to get used to, even with Chalibeth giving her useful tips—a lump formed in her throat, but she refused to think about the girl now—and while it was not entirely effective, for the blankets were flimsy and bordering on transparent, the slaves were respectful of each another's privacy and did not stare when someone was getting dressed.

Éomer considered this. "Arrangements can be made," he said slowly. "But they must not be spoken of outside the Golden Hall, or indeed this room, for questions will be asked if the nature of them becomes public. Do you understand?"

Relieved more than words could possibly express, Gúthwyn voiced her consent whole-heartedly. "Thank you, brother," she said, wishing she could embrace him.

Éomer nodded. "I will tell anyone who inquires that Halwend wishes me to examine your wrists each morning to ensure that no further damage has been done," he decided. "I know it seems foolish, but I do not want others to be gossiping about you. If I am not mistaken, you have had your fill of that."

"You speak all too truthfully," Gúthwyn agreed, hardly daring to believe that her brother was so accepting of this alternative.

"At noon I will come to your chambers," Éomer spoke, his eyes lifted upwards in thought as if he were planning a battle strategy that he rued the necessity of, "unless I have a meeting. I will try to schedule them at other times for the next few weeks. If there is a conflict…" Clearly he resented the possibility. "If there is a conflict," he steeled himself to say, "then I shall send Cobryn in my stead, provided he is willing." Here his voice gathered strength. "He is not to see you without your shift, on pain of—"

"Cobryn would never agree to that," Gúthwyn interjected, shuddering at the very idea, "not even if I asked him—which is the last thing I would ever do."

"—on pain of having both of his eyes removed," Éomer finished grimly. "I would rather not take chances where my baby sister is concerned."

"Cobryn has better morals than that," Gúthwyn replied steadfastly. "I can assert without a doubt that I would trust him with my life, and—" She had been about to add _the protection of my virginity, if I had any,_ but she could not bring herself to be so cavalier about that particular aspect of her past.

"And what?" Éomer prompted her when she did not go on.

Gúthwyn shook her head. "Forgive me, I do not recall what I was about to say. Shall I change now?"

Éomer nodded. "I will dismiss Mildwen," he told her.

Starting, Gúthwyn realized with horror that they had kept the poor maid waiting there for several minutes. "Please," she begged her brother, "apologize to her for me. I did not intend for her to be standing there for so long."

Éomer chuckled, though he declared fondly, "You spoil the servants, sister."

_Because I know all too well what it is like to work for a terrible master,_ Gúthwyn thought, but she did not wish to ruin the mood. "Perhaps," she merely conceded.

Smiling at her, Éomer said, "Pick an outfit while I speak to her."

Gúthwyn promised to do so, suddenly glad that she had decided to take Legolas's advice. Somehow, she mused, she would have to show her appreciation other than repeating the same words of gratitude again and again. Yet until she devised a method of doing this, a simple "thank you" would have to be enough.

_And that I can certainly give him._


	117. Good Riddance

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Epilogue: Recovery**

**Book One**

**By: **anolinde

**Summary:**

The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

**About the Epilogue:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my Trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

**About Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen:  
**The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

**Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen**

Having Éomer undress her was an uncomfortable experience, to say the least. Despite the fact that Gúthwyn was more at ease with him than she would have been with the maids, she was not spared utter mortification when he at last divested her of her gown, and she came close to tears several times. Though he directed his gaze only where he needed to undo knots and ties, and indeed was hindered from seeing her more intimate places because of her shift, she felt as if he were examining her entire body whenever she closed her eyes in fright. She hated the sensation.

He tried to work swiftly, but he could not make any sudden motions around her arms, and fitting them into the sleeves of her new dress was a lengthy process. By the time he was done, Gúthwyn was a nervous wreck; she could only imagine what she would have been like in the hands of women who did not understand why she was trembling so much.

"My poor sister," Éomer murmured when he saw her shell-shocked expression and the way she was shivering. It had nothing to do with the cold. "I wish you were agreeable to the other option…"

Gúthwyn swallowed her hurt, claimed that she was fine, and allowed him to lead her out into the throne room. There, she was forced to endure one final meal with Prince Imrahil, though mercifully of his sons only Erchirion was present. Imrahil's gaze darkened when he saw her wrists, and continued to do so as the meal went on and she was unable to consume food because of them, but he was polite as usual and tactfully avoided all mention of the previous night's events.

Elfwine, meanwhile, was in a state of bewildered panic. Éomer would not let him go to Gúthwyn, her hands looked different, and she did not eat the bread when he told her to. He spent the lunch alternating between fussing and crying, and slapped Lothíriel's hand when she tried to feed him some potatoes. Eventually Imrahil came to the rescue and diverted his attention with a small game, which Gúthwyn watched enviously from a distance. Was it her imagination, or did Lothíriel seem to take amusement from her predicament?

At last, at long last, the plates were cleared, and a servant arrived to announce that the delegation's tents had been packed and the nobility were ready to depart. Gúthwyn felt a surge of relief when this was made known to her; she met Cobryn's eyes across the table and knew that he was equally pleased. Haiweth sighed in disappointment, but Gúthwyn was glad to note that Hammel's countenance appeared to have lightened. Even when they went outside and met up with Legolas, who had chosen to eat with his friends and allow the royal families some time to themselves, the Elf's presence did not dampen her mood in the slightest.

Elfwine did not react well to his grandfather's departure. When told to say goodbye to Prince Imrahil, he bawled in misery, grabbing at the man's tunic in a futile attempt to make him stay. Deciding that he would not be able to handle this procedure another time, Lothíriel handed him off to a waiting Bregwyn. Gúthwyn saw Éomer begin to protest as the nurse left with his son, but he clearly did not want to upset the child further.

Éomund's daughter had to turn her attentions from her nephew at that moment, however, for Legolas had approached her just then. "I hope we shall see each other soon," the prince said, bowing. "Thank you for your generous hospitality."

"Thank _you,_" Gúthwyn replied, "for proving so apt a listener."

Legolas smiled. "It was my pleasure."

"Farewell, my lord."

It was Hammel who had spoken. Unbeknownst to Gúthwyn, he had come up behind her while she was talking to Legolas. His hand was on the shoulder of Haiweth, who was watching the Elf nervously.

"Farewell, Hammel," Legolas replied genially. "Please, call me Legolas."

Hammel nodded, though Gúthwyn knew that he would never adopt this informality, in the same way he insisted on calling Éowyn "my lady."

Realizing that it was her turn to say goodbye, and prompted by a subtle nudge from Hammel, Haiweth quickly echoed, "Farewell."

"Farewell, Haiweth," Legolas responded quietly, mindful of the girl's anxiety. Haiweth paled and inched closer to Hammel; Gúthwyn noticed that the fingers clutching at her skirts were white. _Oh, little one,_ she thought sadly. _I wish you never had cause to fear him._

Legolas's voice suddenly drew her out of her musings. "Will you send Elfwine my regards?" he asked. "It may be that he shall forget my name as soon as I am gone, but I did not get a chance to see him this morning."

Gúthwyn agreed: much to her consternation, Elfwine had grown exceedingly attached to the fair race during their visit. He had befriended Legolas and Trelan, even going so far as to attempt the same with the aloof Raniean. She wondered where the foul-tempered Elf was now.

The mystery did not remain unsolved for long, however. When Legolas took his leave of her and the children, she saw him join his friends and inquire something of Raniean, who had apparently charged himself with the care of the horses. In response to the prince's question, the other Elf laughed harshly, his features glinting in the sunlight.

"May I go now?" Haiweth whined, a pained expression on her face. She kept glancing in the direction of the Dol Amroth delegation, which had congregated before the steps of the Golden Hall to pay their final—and first, Gúthwyn privately maintained—respects to their hosts.

Éomund's daughter opened her mouth to suggest that the child wait until they had spoken to Imrahil, for the man was still bidding farewell to his daughter, but Hammel beat her to it.

"You may," he replied, nodding towards the nobility.

It was all the encouragement Haiweth needed. Like a lightning bolt she darted away from them, threading herself into the crowd and disappearing before they could even blink. Gúthwyn narrowed her eyes in puzzlement, glancing at Hammel.

"She wanted to say goodbye to Alphros," the boy explained shortly.

"Ah." Gúthwyn could have kicked herself for not realizing it sooner. No wonder Haiweth was so jittery, when she had to approach her friend without being detected by Elphir, or indeed anyone who would tell him!

Hammel was silent, and as Gúthwyn observed him, a small smile tugged at his lips and a faraway look came into his eyes, as though he were recalling a pleasant memory. Having a guess as to what he was thinking of, Gúthwyn put an arm around his shoulders. Startled, he shrunk from it, but mindful of her wrists he did not try to move it. She supposed Éomer had told the children of Amrothos's attack, for neither of them had asked questions about the bandages during lunch.

"So," Gúthwyn began when Hammel did not offer any conversation, "how was your evening?"

"It was fine," Hammel said, clearly restraining himself from any show of pleasure. _Why?_ she wondered. _Why are you so reluctant to display emotion? I will not punish you for it._

Hoping to get a reaction out of him, Gúthwyn smiled and murmured in his ear, "I saw you dancing with Aldeth."

A flush spread across Hammel's cheeks. "Y-You did?" he asked, meeting her eyes. Gúthwyn saw within his penetrating look a surprising amount of defiance, as if he were daring her to laugh at him.

"I did," Gúthwyn confirmed, inwardly lamenting the child's defensiveness. "How was it that you learned to waltz so well? The boy I watched was not the same who refused to dance with me when he was younger."

Hammel shrugged. "I read a book," he admitted. "I practiced whenever I had the chance."

"Did this book, by any chance," Gúthwyn began, realization dawning on her, "happen to arrive last week?"

"Yes." Hammel shot her a quick glance. "How did you know?"

"I saw the courier give it to you," Gúthwyn answered. "Who let you borrow the money to pay for it? I asked Cobryn, but he says he never lent you any and he was unaware that you were ordering something in the first place."

"I bought it myself."

Gúthwyn raised an eyebrow. "Where did you get the money?" she repeated.

"It does not matter." Hammel attempted to slip from her grasp.

"Yes, it does," Gúthwyn said, holding onto him tighter. "It is outside of my means to give you any, and you are not yet old enough to be earning a living with a trade—nor do I think myself so ignorant that you could do this without my knowledge. Where did you get the money?"

"I did not steal it," Hammel retorted, "and I did not come across it by another dishonorable method. That is all you need to know." He was cringing at her touch.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, mindful of the people around them who were exchanging their goodbyes, Gúthwyn weighed her options. She could press the issue, and risk alienating the boy even more than she already had; or, she could let the matter go and add it to the increasingly long list of things he was hiding from her.

"Do you swear that this is true?" she asked at length, holding his gaze determinedly.

Hammel gave a curt grunt that she knew to take for a yes. Sighing, Gúthwyn said only, "You must have natural talent, then, to have learned so quickly."

"Hardly," Hammel scoffed. "I made Haiweth practice with me."

There was a soft _click_ as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. "And she promised not to tell anyone?" Gúthwyn guessed, remembering an afternoon a few days ago when she had encountered Haiweth as the girl was exiting Hammel's room. Éomund's daughter had been puzzled by her flustered manner, but had thought nothing further of it, and had even forgotten it until today.

"In return for my helping her meet Alphros, yes."

Gúthwyn gaped at him. "Helping her meet Alphros?"

"He was tired of having only his father for company," Hammel said, "especially when all Elphir ever did, according to him, was sit around and look angry. I arranged for them to see each other, and kept Elphir from realizing what they were doing."

Gúthwyn was astounded. Not only had the children voluntarily cooperated with each other, when normally they had separate interests and did not often seek their sibling's company, but they had concealed their work so well that she had never suspected that anything was amiss. Her brow furrowed. How had she not noticed?

More importantly… "You managed to hide your doings from even Cobryn?"

Hammel shook his head. "He discovered that I was helping Haiweth easily enough. Haiweth did not want him to tell you, for she was afraid that you would be upset. He agreed to keep his silence, but only because he did not think the matter important and Haiweth would have started crying if he did not."

"She was afraid that I would be upset?" Gúthwyn echoed. "Whatever for? I have no qualms with Alphros."

"And his father?" Hammel asked, arching an eyebrow. "Haiweth said that the two of you argued when he saw you with Alphros."

Gúthwyn felt a surge of anger at the mention of Elphir, whose behavior that day had been utterly appalling, but she bit her tongue for Hammel's sake. "Elphir and I may no longer be speaking," she informed the boy, "yet Alphros is certainly well-mannered and it does not bother me that Haiweth wishes to play with him more often. The poor boy could use—"

"Sister!" Éomer called then, having to shout in order to be heard above the crowd. Gúthwyn turned to see him waving her over, Imrahil and Erchirion at his side. Lothíriel was no longer with them.

Though she had no desire to engage in a direct conversation with any prince of Dol Amroth, Gúthwyn gave Hammel a parting kiss on the brow—she was shocked when he flinched, and actually took a step back—and obediently went to join her brother. Much like she had just done with Hammel, Éomer put an arm around her shoulder, but his was a gesture of protectiveness.

"Lady Gúthwyn," Imrahil acknowledged her, inclining his head.

"My lord," Gúthwyn murmured, dropping into the best curtsy she could muster without her hands.

"Please," Imrahil said, "do not trouble yourself. I have done little to deserve such formalities."

Gúthwyn flushed. "I-It was not…"

At that moment, Erchirion, who had been looking distinctly ill at ease ever since Éomund's daughter arrived, cleared his throat and said, "Father, forgive me, but I should go and check on…" He trailed off, yet Imrahil seemed to understand him and nodded, though not without a pointed glance in Gúthwyn's direction. "My lady," Erchirion offered, giving a small bow. His eyes never went to the ground.

"My lord," Gúthwyn replied quietly. As far as she could tell, he was not angry at her, but she did not expect him to be terribly pleased with her either: one of his brothers had been accused of molestation by the king of Rohan on her behalf, and the other had broken off marriage negotiations with her.

Erchirion departed as swiftly as he could without seeming rude, and as Gúthwyn watched his back grow smaller and smaller her mind drifted to those who were also absent.

"Where… where are Elphir and Amrothos, my lord?" she asked Imrahil hesitantly, wincing when his jaw tightened.

"Elphir has chosen to find the least incongruous task he could feasibly perform in an effort to avoid this moment, a slip which needless to say I am not proud of," Imrahil answered. "As for my other son, he is currently indisposed."

His tone was neutral, but Gúthwyn thought his voice might have wavered as he spoke. She hoped she was wrong.

"I-I—"

"I am sorry," Imrahil said, "that our visit had to end like this. I do not foresee our meeting again soon, but if we do I pray you will forgive an old fool for doing an evidently poor job of raising his offspring."

_Offspring,_ Gúthwyn mused, _and not sons?_ Had the gender omission been intentional?

Nevertheless—"My lord," she spoke, "I beg you not to accept responsibility for what has happened. I do not blame you for what… what Amrothos has done, and neither should you."

Imrahil smiled sadly at her. "Perhaps you are too lenient."

Growing increasingly uncomfortable with the topic, for it was bringing back a rush of memories she desired only to forget, Gúthwyn inched towards Éomer and was glad when he held her closer. "My friend," her brother said, "I hope that your journey is safe."

"I do not doubt it shall be," Imrahil replied smoothly. Then, turning to Éomund's daughter, he asked, "Lady Gúthwyn, know you the whereabouts of your companion Cobryn? He is well-versed, and promised to recommend me a number of authors who discuss the art of diplomacy—I am in search of new books, and would not like to leave without his suggestions."

Gúthwyn stifled a grin at this. Cobryn greatly revered Prince Imrahil, and likely had spent hours working on such a list. She did not want his devotion to be wasted! "I believe I saw him near the steps," she said. "He does not have many farewells to make."

Too late, she realized that this might be a poor reflection on Imrahil's people, but the prince did not seem to notice as he thanked her. "It is my hope that we meet each other again," he declared, "although preferably under better circumstances."

"Aye, my lord," Gúthwyn agreed whole-heartedly. _Preferably when none of your subjects or offspring are anywhere within a hundred-league vicinity,_ she thought to herself.

"Send my regards to Hammel and Haiweth," Imrahil bade her, "if I do not see them before I go."

Gúthwyn promised that she would. "It is possible that you will find Haiweth with Alphros," she said, guessing that Imrahil would not have reason to alert Elphir as to whom the boy was associating with, "should you seek your grandson out soon."

Imrahil's eyes twinkled. "They are well-suited for each other," he replied. "I am glad that Alphros has discovered someone of his own age to socialize with—Haiweth must be a remarkable lady, indeed, from the way he constantly speaks of her."

Éomund's daughter beamed at this, delighted that Haiweth had won such approval from the Prince of Dol Amroth. "She is, my lord, I am lucky to have her."

Imrahil made a noise of agreement. "Well, Lady Gúthwyn, I pray that your wrists heal quickly. Rest assured that Amrothos will soon rue the injuries he inflicted on you."

Gúthwyn flushed, but while the proper thing to do would have been to protest Imrahil's vow, she could not bring herself to advocate for a lessening of Amrothos's punishment. Instead she stammered something in response and then retreated into silence as the prince and her brother said a few parting words.

When Imrahil left, she looked up at Éomer. "I pity such a magnificent ruler of such petty people," she murmured, taking care to keep her voice down.

"Unfortunately, in that regard he is not as blessed as we are," Éomer conceded with a grin. "But he is a good man, and not lacking in any other respect."

"Éomer, in the same place I left you?"

Gúthwyn had not seen Lothíriel approaching them; now, she appeared as if she had been pulled out of thin air.

"My lady wife!" Éomer exclaimed jovially. Observing the way Lothíriel was glancing back and forth between her husband and his sister, Gúthwyn started to distance herself from Éomer, but he merely adjusted and put his hand on her shoulder. Then, to the mortification of Gúthwyn and the barely-veiled disgust of Lothíriel, he slipped an arm around his wife's waist so that he was holding both of them. "Excepting Éowyn," he said jovially, oblivious to their mutual tautness and displeasure, "the two women I love most."

How, Gúthwyn wondered, could such a smart man—for intelligent he clearly was, if he maintained his realm so efficiently each year—have so little common sense?

"Cobryn!"

At the sound of his name being called, Cobryn glanced up, bewildered as to who could possibly want anything from him at the moment. Though a prominent figure amidst the king's advisors, more for his odd manner of dress than anything else, his only status as far as the Dol Amroth delegation was concerned was that of Gúthwyn's lover. He highly doubted that any of them had come to bid farewell.

He was shocked to see Prince Imrahil himself approaching, his head inclined in greeting. Cobryn sank into a brief bow, wondering what the Prince had come for. Though he had spoken to the man on a number of occasions, and seemed to have made a good impression, it was unusual that instead of spending his last minutes in Rohan with his family, Imrahil had elected to use them on him.

"My lord," he said, gathering his bearings.

"There is something I need to discuss with you," Imrahil told him quietly, his eyes darting amongst their surroundings. Evidently finding them suitable—Cobryn had situated himself on the stairs, where he would be out of the general crowd's way—the Prince added in a low voice, "I regret not being able to do this at a more convenient time, but the events of yesterday have forced me to seek you out."

"For what, my lord?" Cobryn inquired, his mind briefly flashing back to the previous afternoon and evening. Though he was not one to show his emotions, he felt terrible for Gúthwyn and even empathized with her: he had never been assaulted, but he knew what it was like to be crippled and he did not envy her particular handicap.

Imrahil surveyed him for a moment. "I have observed your interactions with Gúthwyn for the better part of this month," he said bluntly, neither apologizing nor acknowledging pride for his actions. "It is clear to me that you are not romantically involved with her"—that was a polite term—"as my son claims, but rather it seems to me that Gúthwyn is very fortunate to have a friend such as yourself.

"If I am to speak further, you will use this information with only the utmost discretion."

Wary of this request, Cobryn hesitated for a few seconds. He was inclined to trust Imrahil; however, more experience with the Dol Amroth nobility than he had ever wished to have had taught him that none of them were as vapid as their conversations and mannerisms suggested. They all had hidden agendas, they all schemed for power, they all were willing to do whatever it took to achieve their goals.

"As you wish," he finally said, hoping that he would not regret this.

"I believe that Lothíriel may have arranged Gúthwyn's… encounter with Amrothos."

Cobryn thought he had concealed his expression well, but Imrahil nodded at him in recognition. "I am not alone in this, I see. There are several ways in which I have detected her involvement, yet if you are half as intelligent as I believe you are, you will have discerned them already. What I wish to impart upon you is this: as much as I love my daughter, exposure to the appalling behavior in my court has corrupted her. In a sense, I cannot blame her, for she did what she had to to survive. Now, however, she does not realize that such manipulation has no place in Rohan, and ever she seeks to damage Gúthwyn's reputation."

"And Amrothos is helping her," Cobryn said grimly, thinking he was stating the obvious.

To his surprise, Imrahil did not look as convinced. "Perhaps," he replied. "Amrothos used to take part in courtly intrigues, and it was he who taught Lothíriel to do the same. But he has since tired of them, declaring them a waste of his time, and growing so surly around the likes of Lady Míriel and Lord Tulkadan"—a muscle in his face twitched—"that I am shocked to learn that he would so willingly return to these immature plots."

Surely now was the time to relate the conversation he had overheard between Lothíriel and Amrothos. Cobryn opened his mouth, but Imrahil was in the midst of ruminating something and held up a hand. "It strikes me that Amrothos may have also found himself caught in Lothíriel's net. Lothíriel, I think, might have convinced him that Gúthwyn was a danger to their brother and that any attachment on Elphir's part needed to be destroyed. It would have been easy to do so, especially if the role she proposed included seducing Gúthwyn, for not only does Amrothos owe Elphir a number of favors—justifying his involvement in Lothíriel's plans—but, as you may have noticed, it does not take much for Amrothos to pursue a woman."

Cobryn agreed to this, yet: "I pray you are not attempting to excuse his behavior, my lord."

"By all means, no," Imrahil quickly assured him. "I am merely trying to determine for myself how tangled is the web my daughter has weaved. I, unlike Elphir, know that Gúthwyn is terrified of Amrothos and would never willingly seek him out. Also unlike Elphir, I find it odd that Lothíriel would go with her brother to the stables, when she is not an avid rider and her horse is exercised more by the stableboys than herself, at just the right time to catch Amrothos and Gúthwyn in such an inconvenient position.

"Unfortunately, I have no proof of my suspicions. I attempted to question Gúthwyn yesterday, and she only strengthened them by claiming that she did not see Lothíriel enough to comment on their relationship. However, I think that while she has recognized Lothíriel's dislike for her—which is embarrassingly obvious to everyone but Éomer—she does not yet realize that Lothíriel has other designs on her. If Lothíriel is bent on tarnishing her reputation, Gúthwyn will not be able to withstand her. I am sure she is a smart, capable lady, but my daughter has grown up amongst sharks and indeed was the leader of the pack during her last few years at Dol Amroth. She has tactics of deceit that Gúthwyn could never dream of, methods of manipulation that Gúthwyn would be horrified to learn of. Should Lothíriel choose to employ the less obvious ones against her, I fear that Gúthwyn will never see them coming in time."

"And this is where you need me," Cobryn said, at last realizing Imrahil's purpose in approaching him.

"Yes," Imrahil confirmed. "I have heard from Lothíriel that you are canny; when my daughter acknowledges this quality in another, I know that their cleverness is a match even for her. Judging from your withdrawal around Lothíriel, which I have noticed despite its subtleness, you do not trust her; judging also from your position in Elphir's marriage negotiations, you care greatly for Gúthwyn and have done more to protect her than she is aware of."

Cobryn nodded. Although the bulk of the diplomacy concerning Gúthwyn and Elphir's betrothal had been conducted by Éomer and Imrahil themselves, Cobryn had taken care to ensure that all of the conditions would have been agreeable to Gúthwyn. He had not been able to change some things, such as the inevitable wedding night, but he had done his best to provide a comfortable life for her.

"Therefore," Imrahil said, "I wish you to continue the admirable job you have been doing in looking out for her welfare, and what is more to be doubly on your guard. I cannot do anything to help her, and nor is it my place. Yet I am equally unable to stand aside and let her fend for herself, when I am willing to bet that she has endured more than her fair share of hardships."

_You do not know the half of it,_ Cobryn thought grimly. _And neither do I._

"I can assure you, my lord, that I had every intention of tightening my watch around her once your people had left," was what he instead told Imrahil. "If only I had done so earlier."

"If only I had not introduced my daughter to the court," Imrahil replied bitterly. "Then I would not have had to watch her sink to the level where this conversation with you is necessary." The Prince sighed; he clearly was remembering the person Lothíriel had been before her immersion in the politics of Dol Amroth. Cobryn had no sympathy for the queen, but he hardly thought it wise to inform Imrahil that he loathed the despicable woman, so he held his tongue.

His discourse with the Prince did not last much longer. Having accomplished what he set out to do, Imrahil bid him farewell and walked to where a squire was waiting with his horse. None of his sons were at his side. Elphir, to nobody's surprise, had chosen to busy himself with some menial task in order to avoid talking to Gúthwyn or Éomer. Erchirion had also disappeared, his absence merely the latest in a string of attempts to keep out of his brothers' problems. Amrothos, however…

None of the Rohirrim had seen the youngest prince of Dol Amroth since the feast, but Cobryn had heard from one of the watchmen that an unfamiliar litter was stationed outside of the city's gates. Elphir had been seen parting its curtains and speaking to the person inside; Cobryn had a suspicion that it was Amrothos, still inebriated from his mead consumption the night before. Clearly, the man had a drinking problem—rumor had it that he had been much worse in Dol Amroth.

"What interest could my father possibly have in you?" a quiet, cold voice only a couple of feet behind him asked.

Not having expected Lothíriel to approach him so quickly, Cobryn tensed slightly before turning around. "Believe it or not, there are some who find my services worthwhile," he replied, meeting the queen's stare evenly. From the way her eyes were narrowed, he could tell that she was worried, something that she was desperately trying to conceal and perhaps would have succeeded in had he not known why she was posing the inquiry.

"Services?" Lothíriel now echoed, knitting her brow. "Why would the Prince of Dol Amroth require the services of a slave?"

Ignoring the stab at his past, though he would have liked nothing more than to sew her arrogant mouth shut—preferably with a rusty needle—Cobryn said bluntly, "It seems you were not as crafty in slandering Gúthwyn as you thought. Your father has caught onto your discretions and, while lacking proof of them, requested that I guard her from any other designs you might have on her."

Lothíriel paled in shock; Cobryn smiled. He knew she would never confront her father about this, for Imrahil was one of the few ties she still had to Dol Amroth. "You of all people, _your highness_," he said, "should know: someone is always watching. What I find even odder than your sudden lapse of memory, however, is that your father saw the battle that was raging at Meduseld—and chose a side that was not his daughter's."

He had struck a nerve. Lothíriel's eyes turned black with both anger and a hurt that she was struggling to hide, and her fingers flexed as if she were tempted to curl them into a fist and strike him. She could not, however, on account of those around them, out of earshot but close enough to see that they were together. Yet even if they were alone, his quick reflexes meant that he was in no danger of being hit by her, and the knowledge forced her to restrain herself.

"Perhaps," Cobryn said, "when your own father denounces your cause you should reconsider if it is truly worth fighting."

"Imrahil insists on seeing the good in others," Lothíriel snapped, her lips white from where she had pressed them together until her retort, "regardless of whether it is there or not."

With that, she strode away, her rigid back cutting a wide path through the crowd. None of the Rohirrim seemed to want to be close enough to touch her; they murmured their apologies and stepped respectfully back, whereas with Gúthwyn they would have accosted her and clamored for her attention. The difference struck Cobryn keenly in that moment, and it was then that he fully appreciated his friend's lifestyle. To win over a city to the point where its inhabitants were willing to die for her without a second thought… it was a gift, an extraordinary gift that Gúthwyn possessed.

_And one that Lothíriel underestimates,_ he thought to himself. There would come a time when Lothíriel would wish that she had striven to attain what was Gúthwyn's naturally, but it was not now and he doubted that she would soon realize what she had passed over. Instead, she would continue to weave her schemes as though she were still in Dol Amroth, ignorant to the fact that they were no longer needed nor welcomed in Rohan.

Cobryn sighed. He had a feeling that he and Gúthwyn were too thoroughly ensnared by Lothíriel's web to escape until it had spun itself out. As he watched the nobility approach Éomer, one by one thanking the king for his hospitality, he realized that there was no sense of relief at their imminent departure, that only the smallest of Gúthwyn's problems would disappear with their entourage.

Slowly but surely, the lords and ladies mounted their horses—the latter grumbling all the way, he could see—and gradually began making their way down the street. "Good riddance," he heard one of the older serving women mutter.

Just then, Haiweth appeared at the bottom of the stairs and walked up to join him, presumably so she could watch the procession from the height of the steps. "I wonder what will happen to Alphros," she muttered forlornly.

Cobryn chuckled. "Elphir does not abuse him," he pointed out. "Alphros is well-provided for, even more than you are."

Haiweth shook her head. "Gúthwyn loves me," she stated firmly, her gaze momentarily wavering and flickering over to where Éomund's daughter was standing next to Éomer and Lothíriel. "Elphir does not love Alphros."

Arching an eyebrow at this declaration, Cobryn asked, "What makes you say that?"

"If Elphir loved him," Haiweth replied staunchly, "he would let him have friends. I do not like Elphir. He is mean. I am glad Gúthwyn is not marrying him."

Cobryn had to work to conceal his surprise at such vehemence coming from the normally placid child. "So am I," he finally said.

As they stood there, the line of horses and baggage carts slowly dwindled, until the Dol Amroth delegation was nothing but a tiny speck on the horizon.


End file.
